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BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 


ISet    p.  y^ 

'they  sent  shell  after  shell  into  the  village' 


BOY'S    BOOK   OF 
THE    ARMY 


BY 

GEN.  CHARLES  KING,  JOHN  HABBERTON 

CAPTAIN     CHARLES     A.     CURTIS 

LIEUT.  CHARLES  D.  RHODES 

AND  OTHERS 


HXUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 


The  Boys'  Library 

Illustrated — ^Jackets  Printed  in  Colors 


Boys'  Book  of  Cowboys 
Boys*  Book  of  Indians 
Boys'  Book  of  Pirates 
Boys'  Book  of  the  Railroad 
Boys'  Book  of  the  Sea 
Boys'  Book  of  the  Army 
Boys'  Book  of  the  Navy 


Copyright,  1907,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 


All  rights  reserved 

Printed  in  the  U,  S,  A, 

c-z 


CONTENTS 


RECAPTURED 
By   General   Charles  King,   U.S.A. 

A  VERY  LITTLE  FELLOW 
By  Lieutenant   Charles   D.    Rhodes,    U.S.A. 

HOW   REDDY    GAINED    HIS    COMMISSION 
By  Captain  Charles  A.  Curtis,  U.S.A. 

AT   THE    HELIO    STATION 
By  Frank  L.  Pollock 

"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B 
By  Colgate  Baker 

FLORIDE'S  PATIENT 
By  Bertha  Watson 

A  RELIC-HUNTER'S  STRANGE  EXPERIENCE 
By  John  Habberton 

CLARE'S  RIDE 
By  Charles  L.  Hildreth 

HOW    HO-TO-OTO    BECAME    A    RECRUIT 
By   Laura    Fitch    McQuiston 

"SCAPEGRACE" 
By   General   Charles  King,   U.S.A. 

THE   SURRENDER  OF  COCHISE 
By  Julian  Ralph 

WITH  CAPRON   AT  EL  CANEY 
By  Fletcher  C.  Ransome 

ON    AN    ARIZONA    TRAIL 
By  Captain  Charles  A.  Curtis,  U.S.A. 


V 

Ivi60825 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"They   Sent  Shell  After  Shell  Into 

THE  Village" Frontispiece 

*Teddy  was  Clinging  to  the  Trunk, 
AND  Reddy  Swimming  in  the  Boiling 
Current" Facing;  p.    46 

*'A  Breathless  Boy  Stumbled  Forward 
Into  Their  Arms,  Sobbing  Out:  The 
Bridget"       V  166 

*Tlacing  His  Head  Within  the  En- 
trance He  Called:  *Oh,  Mr.  Arnold 
—We  Are  HereT" •*  216 


VI 


INTRODUCTION 

"Fj^OR  the  most  part  these  stories  of  brave  deeds 
•*"  in  army  life  show  the  kind  of  men  who 
guarded  our  West  in  the  days  of  hostile  Indians. 
While  these  tales  are  usually  fiction,  yet  the  fic- 
tion is  usually  founded  upon  some  incident  of 
actual  occurrence.  The  old  frontier  posts  have 
now  disappeared.  They  were  centres  of  a  life 
of  adventure  and  often  of  a  silent  heroism,  in 
which  women  and  children  as  well  as  officers 
and  men  bore  their  full  share.  It  was  a  lonely 
life,  but  full  of  picturesque  incident  and  thrill- 
ing experiences,  as  these  pages  show.  Many 
adventures  of  Uncle  Sam's  soldiers  are  told  in 
the  volumes  of  Harper  s  Strange  Stories  from 
History,  which  sketch  events  in  our  great  wars. 
In  the  present  volume  it  has  seemed  peculiarly 
worth  while  to  afford  a  glimpse  of  the  soldier's 
work  in  clearing  the  way  for  civilization  upon 
this  continent. 

There  is  the  more  reason  for  this  because  the 
courage  and  endurance  of  the  American  regular 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 

soldier,  during  the  long  years  of  Indian  hostili- 
ties in  the  West,  has  never  received  just  recogni- 
tion. The  British  soldier  in  every  corner  of  the 
v^orld  has  been  celebrated  by  poets  and  story- 
writers,  and  he  has  received  substantial  rewards 
from  the  authorities  at  home.  Many  a  brave 
deed  by  American  soldiers  in  our  West,  which 
has  passed  almost  unnoticed,  would  have  given 
a  theme  equal  to  Kipling's  subjects,  and  the 
heroes  were  equally  deserving  of  recognition. 
But  the  wretched  mistakes  in  our  treatment  of 
Indians,  due  so  largely  to  politicians  and  dis- 
honest agents,  have  reacted  unfavorably  upon 
those  who  were  simply  the  instruments  of  their 
superiors — upon  the  American  regular  soldiers. 
So  much  may  properly  be  said,  even  in  an  in- 
troduction to  a  story-book  which  oflfers,  first  of 
all,  entertainment.  That  will  be  found,  assured- 
ly, in  these  tales  of  daring,  not  only  in  the  West, 
but  elsewhere,  for  there  are  glimpses  of  the  great 
war,  and  also  of  the  stern  duty  which  may  de- 
volve upon  the  soldier  when  law  is  set  at  naught 
in  civil  life. 

While  these  are  tales  for  younger  readers,  and 
young  actors  play  a  frequent  part,  it  may  well 
happen  that  this  book  will  tempt  some  one  to 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 

look  closer  into  the  record  of  the  regular  soldiers 
which  is  given  so  inadequately  in  most  histories 
of  our  country.  The  Revolution,  with  its  ex- 
periences of  Hessian  and  British  regulars, 
strengthened  American  distaste  for  a  regular 
soldiery.  Afterwards  the  army  of  the  United 
States  was  reduced  almost  to  the  vanishing-point. 
But  the  disasters  of  Harmer  and  Harmon  in  the 
expedition  against  Chillicothe  in  1790,  and  St. 
Clair's  disastrous  defeat  the  following  year, 
were  costly  lessons.  "However  pacific  the  gen- 
eral policy  of  a  nation  may  be,"  wrote  Washing- 
ton in  1796,  "it  ought  never  to  be  without  an 
adequate  stock  of  military  knowledge."  Hap- 
pily, our  country  is  pacific,  and  it  is  for  the 
younger  generation  to  learn  and  continue  lessons 
of  peace;  but  that  does  not  diminish  the  value 
of  a  true  reading  of  history.  For  only  a  part  of 
the  soldier's  work  has  been  in  war.  The  great 
explorers  of  the  West  were  soldiers,  Lewis  and 
Clark,  who  made  their  classic  journey  from  St. 
Louis  to  the  mouth  of  the  Columbia  River  in 
1804-06;  Pike,  who  sought  the  sources  of  the 
Mississippi  in  1805,  and  the  following  year, 
travelling  westward,  reached  Pike's  Peak,  and 
Fremont,  explorer  of  routes  to  the  Pacific  from 

IX 


INTRODUCTION 

1842  to  1853.  These  are  only  the  most  conspic- 
uous examples  of  the  achievements  of  the  soldier 
in  initial  path-finding  and  surveys  and  recon- 
noissances.  There  was  also  the  policing  of  the 
old  frontier  and  the  guardianship  of  the  great 
routes  know^n  as  the  Overland,  Oregon,  and 
Sante  Fe  Trails. 

As  to  the  wretched  decades  of  Indian  warfare, 
closing  only  in  1890  with  scenes  suggested  in 
a  story  in  this  book,  the  arduous,  gallant,  thank- 
less part  of  the  soldier  may  be  gathered  from 
General  G.  A.  Forsyth's  Thrilling  Scenes  of 
^Army  Life,  and  J.  P.  Dunn's  Massacres  of  the 
Mountains.  These  and  a  few  other  books,  par- 
ticularly General  Forsyth's  Story  of  the  Soldier, 
record  deeds  like  the  march  of  Kearny  and 
Cooke  over  2000  miles  from  Fort  Leavenworth 
to  Sante  Fe  and  the  Pacific  in  1846-47,  the  fruit- 
less Utah  expedition  of  1857  against  the  Mor- 
mons, the  Fetterman  massacre  at  Fort  Phil 
Kearny  in  the  Big  Horn  country  in  1866,  and 
the  punishment  of  Red  Cloud  and  his  followers 
by  Major  Powell  the  following  year;  General 
Forsyth's  gallant  stand  against  overwhelming 
numbers  on  a  fork  of  the  Republican  River  in 
Kansas  in  1868;  the  long  years  of  campaigns 


INTRODUCTION 

against  hostile  Sioux  in  the  north  and  Apaches 
in  the  southwest;  the  Modoc  war  in  Oregon  in 
1872;  the  Custer  massacre  in  1876,  and  the  won- 
derful fight  of  the  heroic  Chief  Joseph  and  his 
Nez  Perce  followers  in  1877,  which  covered 
some  1500  miles,  traversing  three  great  mountain 
ranges.  These  are  a  few  of  the  campaigns  and 
battles  in  which  the  American  soldier,  obeying 
orders,  has  done  a  hero's  work  in  the  winning  of 
our  West. 

A  volume  like  this  is,  plainly,  a  small  side- 
light upon  history  rather  than  history  itself. 
But  facts  may  be  vividly  illustrated  in  fiction, 
and,  in  introducing  this  story-book  to  American 
boys  and  girls,  it  has  seemed  worth  while  to  lay 
stress  upon  certain  facts  of  our  history  which 
have  not  been  justly  appreciated. 

The  regulars  who  fought  to  win  and  guard 
the  West  were  not  responsible  for  broken  trea- 
ties, invaded  lands,  and  stolen  supplies.  Even 
the  hostile  Indians  recognized  the  truthfulness 
of  regulars  like  Crook  and  Howard.  More  than 
this,  our  greatest  soldiers,  like  Grant,  with  his 
prayer  for  peace,  and  Sherman,  with  his  denun- 
ciation of  war,  would  have  chosen  to  be  not  in- 
struments of  bloodshed,  but  messengers  of  peace. 

xi 


BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 


Boy's  Book  of  the,  ^rmy 

RECAPTURED 
A  Story  of  the  Apache  Days  in  Arizona 

'THHERE  was  a  boy  at  old  Camp  Sandy  once 
-*•  upon  a  time  when  white  men  were  scarce 
In  Arizona.  From  the  day  he  was  ten  years  old 
this  boy's  consuming  desire  was  to  help  "clean 
out,"  as  he  heard  the  soldiers  express  it,  a  certain 
band  of  mountain  Apaches  who  had  surprised 
and  slaughtered  a  small  party  of  people  in  whose 
welfare  he  felt  especial  interest,  for  the  reason 
that  there  was  with  them  a  little  fellow  of  his 
own  age.  They  had  been  at  Sandy  only  three 
days,  and  then,  deaf  to  remonstrance,  had  gone 
on  their  way  up  into  the  mountains  "prospect- 
ing" ;  but  during  those  three  days  the  two  young- 
sters had  been  inseparable.  "Sherry"  Bates,  the 
sergeant's  son,  had  done  the  honors  of  the  post 

3 


4  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

for  Jimmy  Lane,  the  miner's  boy;  had  proudly 
exhibited  the  troop  quarters,  stables,  and  corrals; 
had  taken  him  across  the  stream  to  the  old  ruins 
up  the  opposite  heights,  and  told  him  prodigious 
.stories  of  thq  odd  people  that  used  to  dwell 
.tliereVhadciiitroduced  him  personally  to  all  the 
/:hDunds,:big.^nd  little,  and  had  come  to  grief  in 
professing  to  be  on  intimate  terms  with  a  young 
but  lively  black  bear  cub  at  the  sutler's  store. 
He  was  rescued  from  serious  damage  from 
bruin's  claws  and  clasping  arms  only  by  the 
prompt  dash  of  by-standers.  It  took  some  of 
Sherry's  conceit  out  of  him,  but  not  all,  and  the 
troopers  had  lots  of  fun,  later  on,  at  the  corral, 
when  he  essayed  to  show  Master  Jim  how  well 
he  could  ride  bare-back,  and  mounted  one  of 
Mexican  Pete's  little  "burros"  by  way  of  illus- 
tration. 

AH  the  same,  they  were  days  of  thrilling  in- 
terest, and  Sherry  wept  sorely  when,  a  week 
later,  a  friendly  Indian  came  in  and  made  known 
to  the  officers,  mainly  by  signs,  that  the  party 
had  been  killed  to  a  man,  that  their  mutilated 
bodies  were  lying  festering  in  the  sun  about  the 
ruins  of  their  wagons  up  near  Stoneman's  Lake 
in  the  pine  country  of  the  Mogollon.*    The 

♦Pronounced  Mogolj^on^. 


RECAPTURED  5 

major  commanding  sent  out  a  scouting  party  to 
investigate,  and  the  report  proved  only  too  true. 
The  bodies  could  no  longer  be  identified;  but 
one  thing  was  certain:  there  were  the  remains 
of  four  men,  hacked  and  burned  beyond  recogni- 
tion, but  not  a  trace  of  little  Jim. 

"It  was  Coyote's  band,  beyond  doubt,"  said 
the  lieutenant  who  went  in  command,  and  for 
Coyote's  band  the  troopers  at  Sandy  "had  it  in," 
as  their  soldier  slang  expressed  it,  for  long,  long 
months — for  over  a  year,  in  fact — before  they 
ever  got  word  or  trace  of  them.  They  seemed 
to  have  vanished  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Meantime  there  had  been  chase  after  chase, 
scout  after  scout.  General  Crook  had  been 
transferred  long  since  to  another  field,  and  was 
busy  with  the  Sioux  and  Cheyennes.  Another 
commander,  one  who  lacked  Crook's  knowledge 
of  Indian  tricks  and  character,  had  taken  charge 
in  Arizona,  and  the  Apaches  had  quickly  found 
it  out.  They  made  it  lively  for  small  parties, 
and  easily  kept  out  of  the  path  of  big  ones.  And 
this  was  the  way  things  were  going  when,  one 
autumn  night,  signal  fires  were  discovered 
ablaze  away  up  in  the  Red  Rock  country,  and 
Major  Wheeler  sent  a  troop  post-haste  to  see 


6  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

what  it  meant.  With  this  troop  went  Sergeant 
Bates,  and  on  its  trail,  an  hour  later,  unbeknown 
to  almost  everybody,  went  Sherry. 

Indians  rarely  ventured  into  the  deep  valley 
of  the  Sandy.  The  boy  had  hunted  jack-rabbits 
and  shot  California  quail,  and  fished  for 
"shiners"  and  other  inconspicous  members  of 
the  finny  tribe  along  its  banks,  and  he  knew  the 
neighborhood  north,  south,  and  west  for  miles. 
Eastward,  out  of  sight  of  the  flag-staff,  he  had 
never  ventured.  That  was  towards  the  land  of 
the  Apache,  and  thither  his  father  had  told  him 
no  one  could  go  safely.  An  only  son  was  Sherry, 
and  a  pretty  good  boy,  as  boys  go,  especially 
when  it  is  considered  that  he  had  been  mother- 
less for  several  years. 

The  old  sergeant,  his  father,  watched  him 
carefully,  taught  him  painstakingly,  and  was 
very  grateful  when  any  of  the  officers  or  their 
wives  would  help  with  the  lessons  of  the  little 
man.  He  had  had  a  pony  to  ride,  but  that  pony 
was  old  when  his  father  bought  him  from  an 
officer  who  was  ordered  to  the  East,  and  Sherry 
soon  declared  him  too  old  and  stiff  for  his  use. 
What  he  craved  was  a  horse,  and  occasionally 
the  men  let  him  mount  some  of  their  chargers 


RECAPTURED  7 

when  the  troop  went  down  to  water  at  the  river, 
and  that  was  Sherry's  glory.  On  this  particular 
October  night  he  had  stolen  from  his  little  bed 
and  made  his  way  to  the  corral,  and  had  got 
Jimmy  Lanigan,  the  saddler  sergeant's  son,'  now 
a  trumpeter  in  ^T"  Troop,  to  saddle  for  him  a 
horse  usually  ridden  by  Private  McPhee,  now 
sick  in  hospital  of  mountain  fever.  As  Mac 
couldn't  go,  his  horse  would  not  be  needed,  and 
Sherry  determined  to  ride  in  his  place. 

But  some  one  gave  old  Bates  the  "tip,"  and 
he  caught  the  little  fellow  by  the  ear  and  led  him 
home  just  before  the  troop  started,  and  bade  him 
stay  there;  and  Sherry  feigned  to  be  penitent 
and  obedient,  but  hugged  his  father  hard,  and 
so  they  parted. 

But  boys  who  own  dogs  know  the  old  dog's 
trick.  Sometimes  when  starting  for  a  day's 
pleasuring  where  Rover  would  be  very  much  in 
the  way,  the  master  has  sternly  ordered  him 
home  when,  with  confident  joy,  the  usually  wel- 
come pet  and  companion  came  bounding  and 
barking  after.  You  have  all  seen  how  sad  and 
crestfallen  he  looked,  how  dumbly  he  begged, 
how  reluctantly  he  skulked  homeward  when  at 
last  he  had  to  go  or  be  pelted  with  stones;  and 


8  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

then,  time  and  again,  he  finally  turned  and  fol- 
lowed, a  long  distance  behind,  never  venturing 
to  draw  near,  until,  so  very  far  from  home  that 
he  knew  he  couldn't  be  sent  back,  he  would  re- 
appear, tail  on  high  and  eyes  beaming  forgive- 
ness and  assurance,  and  the  battle  was  won. 

And  Sherry  had  learned  Rover's  little  game, 
and  he  lay  patiently  in  wait  until  he  knew  the 
troop  was  gone,  then  over  to  the  corral  he  stole, 
easily  coaxed  the  stable  sentry  into  giving  him 
a  lift,  and  in  half  an  hour  he  was  loping  north- 
ward along  the  winding  Sandy  under  the  starry 
skies,  sure  of  overtaking  the  command  before 
the  dawn  if  need  be,  yet  craftily  keeping  well 
behind  the  hindermost,  so  that  his  stern  old 
father  could  not  send  him  back  when  at  last  his 
presence  was  discovered. 

For,  long  before  daybreak,  the  soldiers  were 
trailing  in  single  file,  afoot  and  leading  their 
horses  up  the  steep,  rocky  sides  of  the  Mogol- 
lon,  taking  a  short-cut  across  the  range  instead 
of  following  the  long,  circuitous  route  to  Stone- 
man's  Lake,  and  only  a  hundred  feet  or  so  be- 
hind the  rearmost  of  the  pack-train  followed 
keen-eyed,  quick-eared,  little  Sherry,  still  cling- 
ing to  his  saddle,  for  his  light  weight  made  little 


RECAPTURED  9 

difference  to  such  a  strong  horse  as  McPhee's 
Patsy.  He  trusted  mainly  to  Patsy's  power  as 
a  trailer  to  carry  him  unerringly  in  the  hoof- 
prints  of  the  troop. 

When  at  last  the  sun  came  peering  over  the 
pine  crests  to  the  east,  the  little  command  was 
deep  down  in  a  rocky  canon,  and  here  the  cap- 
tain ordered  the  men  to  halt,  lead  into  line,  and 
unsaddle.  The  horses  and  the  pack-mules  were 
quickly  relieved  of  their  loads,  and  the  men 
were  gathering  dry  fagots  for  little  cook-fires — 
fires  that  must  make  no  smoke  at  all,  even  down 
in  that  rocky  defile,  for  Indian  eyes  are  sharp 
as  a  microscope.  Before  they  marched  on  again, 
men  and  horses  both  had  to  have  their  bite,  and 
the  men  their  tin  mug  of  soldier  coffee,  and  here 
it  was  that  some  one  suddenly  exclaimed : 

"Well,  I'm  blessed  if  here  ain't  Sherry!" 

It  was  useless  for  the  old  sergeant  to  scold 
now.  The  officers  promptly  and  laughingly 
took  the  boy's  part  and  declared  him  "a  chip 
of  the  old  block,"  and  bade  the  sergeant  bring 
the  boy  along.  It  was  safer,  at  all  events,  than 
sending  him  back. 

And  so,  secretly  proud  of  him,  though  open- 
ly declaring  he  would  larrup  him  well  the  mo- 


10      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

ment  they  got  back  to  the  post,  Sergeant  Bates 
obeyed  his  captain,  and  thus  it  happened  that 
Master  Sherry  was  with  ^'F"  Troop  the  chill 
October  morning,  just  at  dawn,  when  they  found 
out,  entirely  to  their  satisfaction,  just  what  those 
signal-fires  meant. 

They  were  not  visible  from  Camp  Sandy,  you 
must  understand.  Indians  are  too  sharp  for  that. 
They  were  started  in  certain  deep  clefts  in  the 
Red  Rocks,  which  permitted  their  glare  to  be 
seen  only  from  the  southeast  or  the  east,  the 
direction  from  which  the  roving  bands  ap- 
proached when  seeking  to  steal  their  way  back 
to  the  old  reservation  after  some  bloody  foray, 
sure  of  food  and  welcome  at  the  lodges  of  their 
friends  and  fellow-savages,  provided  they  came 
not  empty-handed.  Coyote^s  band  had  not  been 
near  the  reservation  since  their  exploit  of  the 
year  before.  A  price  was  on  the  leader's  head, 
but  scouting  parties  away  down  to  the  southeast 
in  the  Chiricahua  country  had  learned  that 
recently  Coyote,  with  some  forty  followers,  had 
crossed  to  the  north  of  the  Gila,  and  seemed  to 
be  making  his  way  back  to  his  old  haunts  in  the 
Mogollon.  All  this  was  wired  to  Major 
Wheeler,  who  sent  some  trustworthy  Apache- 


RECAPTURED  11 

Mohave  scouts  out  towards  the  headquarters  of 
Chevelon's  Fork  to  the  east,  with  orders  to  watch 
for  the  coming  of  Coyote.  It  was  one  of  these 
runners  who  brought  in  the  tidings  that  the  sig- 
nal-fires were  burning,  and  that  meant,  ^^Come 
on.  Coyote ;  the  coast  is  clear." 

And  Apache  confederates,  watching  from  the 
reservation,  twenty  miles  up-stream,  would  have 
said  the  coast  was  still  clear,  for  the  road  to 
Stoneman's  Lake  was  untrodden.  A  day  after- 
wards, to  be  sure,  they  got  word  that  a  whole 
troop  of  horse  had  gone  by  night  into  the  moun- 
tains, but  it  was  then  too  late  to  undo  what  they 
had  done — lured  Coyote  many  a  mile  towards 
his  enemies.  They  sent  up  "smokes"  in  the  after- 
noon to  warn  him,  but  by  that  time  Coyote's 
people,  what  was  left  of  them,  knew  more  than 
did  their  friends  at  the  reservation. 

For,  early  that  morning,  just  at  dawn,  while 
some  of  them  were  sound  asleep  in  their  brush 
shelters,  or  "wickie-ups,"  away  on  top  of  a  rocky 
pinnacle  that  overlooked  the  country  for  miles, 
this  is  what  happened : 

Following  the  lead  of  three  or  four  swart, 
black-haired,  beady-eyed  Apache  scouts,  the  sol- 
diers came  stealthily  climbing  the  steep.    Away 


12      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

down  in  a  rocky  canon  they  had  left  the  horses 
and  pack-mules,  their  blankets,  and,  many  of 
them,  their  boots,  and  in  moccasins,  or  even 
stocking  feet  in  a  few  cases,  they  noiselessly  made 
their  way.  Officers  and  all  carried  the  death- 
dealing  little  brown  cavalry  carbine,  and  thim- 
ble belts  of  copper  cartridges  were  buckled 
about  their  waists.  ^Tind  um  top,"  the  leader 
of  the  little  squad  of  scouts  muttered  to  the  cap- 
tain, as  he  pointed  the  evening  before  to  this 
distant  peak,  and  well  he  knew  their  ways,  for 
only  three  years  before  he  himself  had  been  a 
"hostile,"  who  was  tamed  into  subjection  by 
General  Crook.  And  so  it  proved.  Relying  on 
the  far-away  night  fires.  Coyote  and  his  weary 
band  had  made  their  brush  shelters  on  the  old 
Picacho.  The  few  squaws  with  them  had  filled 
their  water-jars  at  the  canon.  Two  trusty 
runners  had  gone  on  westward  to  the  reservation, 
and  the  rest  betook  themselves  to  sleep.  Coyote 
thought  the  white  soldiers  "too  heap  fool"  to 
think  of  making  a  night  march  through  the 
mountains  instead  of  coming  away  around  by  the 
old  road. 

With  the  troop-horses  was  left  a  small  guard, 
and  with  the  guard  a  little  boy — Master  Sherry 


RECAPTURED  13 

Bates — fretting  and  fuming  not  a  little  as  he  lay 
there  among  the  rocks,  wrapped  in  his  father's 
blanket,  and  listening  with  eagerness  unspeak- 
able for  the  crash  of  musketry  away  up  on  that 
dimly  outlined  peak  which  would  tell  that  his 
father  and  the  boys  had  found  their  foemen  and 
the  fight  was  on.  Presently,  as  the  eastern  sky 
began  to  change  from  crimson  to  gold,  the  lofty 
summit  seemed  to  blaze  with  glistening  fire. 
The  light,  still  dim  and  feeble  in  the  jagged 
ravine,  grew  sharp  and  clear  along  the  range, 
and  one  of  the  guard,  peering  through  the  cap- 
tain's binocular,  swore  he  could  "see  some  of 
the  fellers  climbing  close  to  the  top";  and 
Sherry,  though  shivering  with  cold  and  excite- 
ment, rolled  out  of  his  blanket  and  scrambled  to 
his  feet. 

An  instant  more,  and,  floating  on  the  moun- 
tain breeze,  there  came  the  sudden  crash  and 
splutter  of  distant  musketry,  and  Sherry  could 
control  himself  no  longer.  Mad  with  excite- 
ment, he  began  dancing  about  the  bivouac.  The 
men  were  all  listening  and  gazing.  The  horses 
were  snorting  and  pawing.  Half  shrouded  by 
the  lingering  darkness  in  the  gorge,  he  stole 


14      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

away  among  the  stunted  pine  and  went  speed- 
ing as  though  for  dear  life  up  the  canon. 

The  fight  itself  was  of  short  duration.  Sur- 
prised in  their  stronghold,  the  Indians  sprang 
to  their  arms  at  the  warning  cry  of  one  hapless- 
ly wakeful  sentinel.  It  was  his  death-song,  too, 
for  Sergeant  Bates  and  the  veteran  corporal  at 
his  side,  foremost  with  the  guides,  fired  together 
at  the  dark  figure  as  it  suddenly  leaped  between 
them  and  the  sky,  tumbling  the  sentry  in  his 
tracks.  Then,  before  the  startled  band  could 
spring  to  the  shelter  of  surrounding  bowlders, 
the  soldiers  with  one  volley  and  a  ringing  cheer 
came  dashing  in  among  them.  Some  warriors, 
in  their  panic,  leaped  from  the  ledge  and  were 
dashed  upon  the  rocks  below;  some,  like  moun- 
tain-goats, went  bounding  down  the  eastward 
side  and  disappeared  among  the  straggling  tim- 
ber; some,  crouching  behind  the  bowlders, 
fought  desperately,  until  downed  by  carbine 
butt  or  bullet.  Some  few  wailing  squaws  knelt 
beside  their  slain,  sure  that  the  white  soldiers 
would  not  knowingly  harm  them ;  while  others, 
like  frightened  does,  darted  away  into  the  shelter 
of  rock  or  stunted  pine.  One  little  Indian  boy 
sat  straight  up  from  a  sound  sleep,  rubbing  his 


RECAPTURED  15 

baby  eyes,  and  yelling  with  terror.  Another 
little  scamp,  with  snapping  black  eyes,  picked 
up  a  gun  and  pulled  the  trigger  like  a  man,  and 
then  lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  rubbing  a  dam- 
aged shoulder,  and  kicking  almost  as  hard  as 
the  old  musket.  And  then,  while  some  soldiers 
went  on  under  a  boy  lieutenant  in  chase  of  the 
fleeing  Indians,  others,  with  their  short-winded 
captain,  counted  up  the  Indian  losses  and  their 
own,  and  gave  their  attention  to  the  wounded; 
and  all  of  a  sudden  there  went  up  a  shout  from 
Sergeant  Bates,  who  was  peering  over  the  edge 
of  a  shelf  of  rock.  I 

"Here's  more  of  'em,  sir,  running  down  this 
way!"  followed  by  a  bang  from  his  carbine  and 
a  yell  from  below,  and  men  who  reached  his 
side  were  just  in  time  to  see  a  brace  of  squaws, 
dragging  two  or  three  youngsters  by  the  hand, 
darting  into  the  bushes,  while  their  protecting 
warriors  defiantly  faced  their  assailants,  fired 
a  shot  or  two,  and  then  plunged  after  them.  "I 
know  that  Indian,"  almost  screamed  old  Bates. 
"It's  Coyote  himself!" 

"After  'em,  then!"  was  the  order,  and  away 
went  every  man. 

Two  minutes  later,  out  from  under  a  shelving 


16  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

rock  came  crawling  a  trembling  squaw.  Peer- 
ing cautiously  around,  and  assuring  herself  the 
troopers  were  gone,  she  listened  intently  to  the 
sound  of  pursuit  dying  away  down  the  mountain- 
side; then  in  a  harsh  whisper  summoned  some 
one  else.  Out  from  the  same  shelter,  shaking 
with  fear,  came  a  little  Apache  boy,  black  and 
dirty,  dragging  by  the  hand  another  boy,  white 
and  dirtier  still,  and  crying.  Seizing  a  hand  of 
each,  the  woman  scurried  back  along  the  range, 
until  she  reached  the  narrow  trail  by  which  the 
troopers  had  climbed  the  heights ;  then,  panting, 
and  muttering  threats  to  the  urchins  dragging 
helplessly  after,  down  the  hill-side  she  tore,  but 
only  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  when,  with  a  scream 
of  fright  and  misery,  she  threw  herself  prone 
upon  her  knees  before  the  body  of  a  lithe,  sinewy 
Apache  just  breathing  his  last.  And  then,  for- 
getting her  boy  charges,  forgetting  everything 
for  the  moment  but  that  she  had  lost  her  brave, 
she  began  swaying  to  and  fro,  crooning  some 
wild  chant,  while  the  boys,  white  and  black, 
knelt  shuddering  among  the  rocks  in  nerveless 
terror. 

And  this  was  the  scene  that  suddenly  burst 
upon  the  eyes  of  Sherry,  the  sergeant's  boy,  as 


RECAPTURED  17 

he  came  scrambling  up  the  trail  in  search  of  his 
father.  And  then  went  up  a  shrill,  boyish  voice 
in  a  yell  of  mingled  hope  and  dread  and  despera- 
tion, and  the  dirty  little  white  savage,  screaming 
^^Sherry!  Sherry!"  went  bounding  to  meet  the 
new-comer.  And,  the  squaw  rose  up  and 
screamed,  too  —  something  Master  Sherry 
couldn't  understand,  but  that  sent  terror  to  the 
white  boy's  heart  and  lent  him  wings.  "Run! 
run!"  he  cried,  as  he  seized  Sherry  by  the  hand, 
and,  hardly  knowing  where  they  were  going, 
back  went  both  youngsters,  tearing  like  mad 
down  the  tortuous  trail. 

Five  minutes  later,  as  some  of  the  men,  well- 
nigh  breathless,  came  drifting  in  from  the  pur- 
suit, and  Corporal  Clancy  was  running  up  from 
the  canon  in  pursuit  of  the  vanished  "kid,"  both 
parties  stumbled  suddenly  upon  this  motley  pair, 
and  the  rocks  rang  with  Clancy's  glad  cry. 

"Here  he  is,  sergeant!  all  right,  and  Jimmy 
Lane  wid  him." 

And  that's  why  Sherry  didn't  get  the  prom- 
ised larruping  when  they  all  got  back  to  Sandy. 


A  VERY  LITTLE  FELLOW 
Jerry  and  the  Highwaymen 

'T^HERE  are  a  great  many  advantages  in  be- 
^  ing  a  big  fellow;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  are  a  number  of  advantages  in  being  a  little 
fellow.  If  Jerry  had  not  been  a  very  little  fel- 
low, something  might  have  happened  that  would 
have  been  a  source  of  great  regret,  and  this  story 
might  never  have  been  written  —  at  least,  not 
about  this  particular  boy. 

Aside  from  all  the  old-time  dangers  in  our 
West  from  Indians  and  wild  animals,  there  were 
others,  not  less  to  be  dreaded,  from  the  lawless 
characters  who  took  advantage  of  the  difficulty 
of  enforcing  the  laws  of  the  country.  The  towns 
were  few  and  far  between,  and  even  in  the  towns 
themselves  there  was  little  law  and  order.  Oc- 
casionally the  law-abiding  people  would  attempt 
to  rid  themselves  of  the  rough  characters,  and 
the  latter,  driven  from  their  dishonest  pursuits 

18 


A  VERY  LITTLE  FELLOW  19 

in  the  towns,  would  go  into  the  open  country  and 
become  horse-thieves  or  highwaymen — ^more 
commonly  known  through  the  West  as  "road- 
agents." 

Little  by  little,  as  the  Western  country  became 
more  thickly  settled,  these  bad  characters  dis- 
appeared, but  not  entirely.  And  even  now  one 
quite  frequently  hears  of  the  doings  of  these  men 
in  the  wilder  localities. 

It  was  in  just  such  a  place  that  the  scene  of 
my  story  is  laid.  Fort  McKay  was  one  of  those 
small,  isolated  army  posts  in  the  Indian  country 
which  could  only  be  reached  by  a  long  overland 
trip  from  the  little  box  of  a  railroad  station  over 
one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away.  There  was 
a  stage — a  rickety  vehicle,  drawn  by  four  lean 
broncos — ^which  made  the  long  trip  twice  a 
week.  But  the  price  charged  was  so  high,  and 
the  journey  was  such  an  uncomfortable  one,  that 
people  from  the  army  post  much  preferred  to 
travel  in  their  own  ambulance,  drawn  by  four 
well-fed  government  mules. 

And  now  I  think  it  time  for  you  to  know  a 
little  more  about  Jerry — other  than  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  little  fellow.  He  was  the  only  son — a 
motherless  son — of  an  old  soldier  in  one  of  the 


20  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

cavalry  regiments,  and  what  he  did  not  know 
about  an  army  post  and  army  life  was  not  worth 
knowing.  He  had  had  very  little  care  in  his 
bringing  up,  but  in  his  short  life  had  picked  up 
a  great  deal  of  the  good,  a  few  of  the  bad,  and 
a  great  many  of  the  indifferent  traits  of  Uncle 
Sam's  soldiers.  He  was  never  known  to  spell  a 
word  right  the  first  time,  and  he  accounted  it  a 
very  great  accomplishment  that  he  could  write 
his  name.  On  the  other  hand,  Jerry  could  ride 
like  an  Indian,  drive  a  team,  or  even  a  "four," 
with  a  skilled  hand,  and  assist  in  packing  a  mule 
like  a  veteran.  One  could  never  guess  Jerry's 
age,  and  as  he  felt  rather  sensitive  about  his 
small  size,  one  could  never  persuade  him  to  tell 
just  how  old  he  was.  But  he  was  so  quick  and 
smart  and  good-natured  that  he  was  a  general 
favorite  with  all  whom  he  met. 

Not  many  years  ago  the  regiment  to  which 
Jerry's  father  belonged  received  a  change  of 
station;  and  about  the  same  time  one  of  the 
numerous  troubles  with  the  Indians  broke  out 
in  the  very  country  to  which  the  regiment  was 
transferred.  So  Jerry,  who,  to  tell  the  truth, 
had  never  had  much  affection  lavished  on  his 
young  head,  was  left  with  a  distant  relative  at 


A  VERY  LITTLE  FELLOW  21 

a  small  Nebraska  town  through  which  the  train 
bearing  the  troops  passed,  until  the  new  stations 
of  the  regiment  were  made  known.  Now,  three 
months  later,  the  Indian  hostilities  had  ceased, 
a  part  of  the  regiment  was  safely  housed  at  Mc- 
Kay, and  Jerry  was  alone  at  the  little  railroad 
station  of  Bronco,  ready  to  take  the  overland 
journey  to  McKay,  if  he  had  to  walk.  Jerry's 
confidence  in  his  father  was  unbounded,  and 
when  the  latter  had  written  to  him  to  take  the 
train  for  Bronco  on  a  certain  day,  Jerry  had  done 
so,  and  had  asked  no  questions. 

The  two  young  fellows  who  managed  affairs 
at  Bronco  had  taken  Jerry  into  their  house  as 
a  matter  of  course — in  the  West  one's  hospitality 
is  not  measured  by  the  size  of  one's  dwelling- 
place.  And  here,  for  two  days,  Jerry  had  re- 
mained, hoping  that  something  would  turn  up 
to  help  him  along  towards  McKay. 

And  something  did  turn  up.  On  the  morning 
of  the  third  day  the  ambulance  from  McKay 
arrived  at  the  station,  with  Lieutenant  Johnson 
in  charge;  and  the  next  train  from  the  East 
brought  Major  McGregor,  a  crusty  old  bachelor 
officer  of  the  regiment;  Mrs.  Johnson  and  baby, 
the  lieutenant's  wife  and  child;  and  Dr.  San- 


22  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

born,  a  young  army  surgeon  from  the  East,  who 
was  about  to  join  his  first  army  post  at  McKay. 

In  spite  of  a  certain  amount  of  grumbling  on 
the  part  of  the  major,  who  did  not  like  boys  of 
Jerry's  age,  the  latter  readily  obtained  permis- 
sion to  ride  on  the  ambulance  with  the  driver, 
and  the  party  started  across  the  rough  country 
in  high  spirits.  Jerry  waved  a  very  enthusiastic 
farewell  to  his  railroad  friends  with  what  re- 
mained of  a  soiled  pocket-handkerchief;  Davie, 
the  teamster,  cracked  his  long  whip,  and  the 
ambulance  moved  smoothly  along  over  the 
prairies,  leaving  in  its  wake  a  cloud  of  thick, 
white  dust. 

The  trip  proceeded  during  the  first  day  with- 
out incident  The  country  consisted  of  rolling 
cattle-ranges,  with  no  fences,  trees,  or  cultivated 
land  to  be  seen  in  any  direction.  The  only  signs 
of  life  were  occasional  bunches  of  range-cattle 
and  the  ever-present  prairie-dogs. 

As  it  became  cooler,  Davie  wrapped  his  extra 
blanket  about  Jerry's  small  body,  and  the  two 
huddled  together  for  warmth.  Jerry  had  re- 
ceived too  many  hard  knocks  during  his  life- 
time to  make  a  fuss  about  a  little  cold. 

The  first  night  was  spent  at  a  large  ranch- 


A  VERY  LITTLE  FELLOW  23 

house,  surrounded  with  cottonwood-trees,  from 
which  could  be  seen  the  mountains — on  the 
eastern  slope  of  which  Fort  McKay  was  situated. 
On  the  following  day  the  journey  was  resumed, 
bright  and  early.  The  country  became  rougher, 
and  to  the  right  of  the  long,  winding  road  the 
Bad  Lands,  in  all  their  ugly  barrenness,  rose  into 
view. 

It  was  a  long  day's  journey — made  necessary 
in  order  to  arrive  at  the  expected  stopping-place 
before  nightfall.  But  the  road  was  rougher  than 
was  anticipated,  and  late  in  the  evening  the  am- 
bulance was  still  a  long  distance  from  the  end 
of  the  day's  journey,  and  the  weary  mules  re- 
quired an  occasional  touch  from  the  long  whip 
to  keep  them  up  to  the  steady  gait. 

And  this  was  the  time  that  something  hap- 
pened. 

As  the  ambulance  passed  over  a  small  divide, 
and  began  the  descent  on  the  other  side,  two 
horsemen  galloped  up  from  the  timber  which 
fringed  the  base  of  the  hill,  while  a  third  rider 
moved  out  to  the  right  and  circled  towards  them 
from  the  side. 

"Road-agents!"   softly  whispered  Jerry,   in 


24      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

suppressed  excitement,  and  Davie,  the  teamster, 
laughed. 

But  whether  it  was  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  or  something  else,  Jerry  had  slid 
down  beneath  the  seat  and  was  lost  to  view. 
Davie  continued  to  chuckle  to  himself. 

An  instant  later  and  Jerry  had  poked  his  head 
up  on  the  inside  of  the  ambulance,  between  the 
major's  knees,  much  to  that  worthy's  surprise, 
for  he  had  begun  to  doze. 

"What  in  the  name  of  all  that's  good  is  this?" 
gasped  the  major. 

An  ambulance  with  four  grown  persons  and  a 
baby  inside  is  not  a  very  roomy  place  at  its  best, 
and  when  Jerry's  small  body  was  squeezed  in, 
it  created  a  surprise,  for  the  leather  sides  of  the 
vehicle  had  been  battened  down  to  keep  out  the 
night  air,  and  made  it  very  dark. 

"  'Sh!"  said  Jerry,  in  a  stage-whisper.  "Road- 
agents  ahead.  Give  me  your  money,  quick,  and 
I'll  hide."  And  suiting  his  action  to  the  word, 
Jerry  began  to  grope  around  for  whatever  he 
might  find  of  value. 

The  major  began  to  splutter,  and  the  baby 
began  to  cry. 

"You  young  scamp,"  he  began,  "to  come  in 


A  VERY  LITTLE  FELLOW  25 

here  in  this  manner  and  attempt  to  alarm  a  lady 
— and  a — a  baby!"  with  a  look  in  the  direction 
of  the  howling  child. 

But  the  others  did  not  laugh.  They  were  im- 
pressed by  Jerry's  earnestness. 

Just  then,  however,  a  gruff  voice  was  heard 
in  front.  The  ambulance  came  to  a  sudden  stop, 
and  another  voice  called  to  the  driver;  "Hands 
upl    Come  down  from  there!" 

Then  it  was  that  the  passengers,  the  major 
excepted,  fully  realized  what  had  happened,  and 
valuables  were  thrust  into  Jerry's  broad- 
brimmed  hat  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it. 
Two  rolls  of  greenbacks,  three  watches,  some 
rings,  and  a  diamond  pin  were  among  the  arti- 
cles, and  just  as  a  rough  hand  turned  the  knob 
of  the  ambulance  door,  Jerry,  with  his  precious 
hat,  rolled  under  the  hangings  of  the  front  seat 
out  of  sight. 

"Climb  out  of  here!"  yelled  a  fierce-looking 
man  with  a  red  handkerchief  tied  over  his  face 
to  conceal  his  features.  And  he  poked  the 
muzzles  of  two  revolvers  under  the  major's  nose. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  the  incredulous 
major  realize  that  he  had  really  been  "held  up" 
by  highwaymen ;  and  as  he  was  nearest  the  door, 


26      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

he  was  the  first  to  climb  awkwardly  but  quickly 
down  on  to  the  ground  and  hold  up  his  hands. 

Resistance  was  useless.  The  others  were 
forced  to  alight,  and  while  two  of  the  robbers 
covered  the  party  with  their  revolvers,  the  third 
searched  them  for  valuables. 

The  search  w^as  not  pleasant  to  the  major.  His 
arms  were  getting  tired,  and  he  incautiously 
allowed  one  of  them  to  drop.  He  had  no  sooner 
done  so,  however,  than  one  of  the  desperadoes 
fired  his  pistol  high  over  the  major's  head,  as 
a  hint  of  what  he  might  expect  if  he  was  not 
careful.  The  major  took  the  hint,  and  straight- 
ened up  with  a  jerk. 

But  the  shot  had  another,  very  unexpected, 
eflFect.  The  four  mules  attached  to  the  ambu- 
lance were  frightened  and  sprang  forward,  and 
in  another  instant  they  were  speeding  along  the 
road  at  a  gallop,  glad  to  be  once  more  travelling 
towards  home  and  supper. 

The  robbers  took  little  heed  of  this  occurr- 
ence, until,  as  they  failed  to  find  anything  of 
great  value  on  any  one  except  the  major,  who 
meekly  submitted  to  being  robbed  of  a  large 
roll  of  bills,  they  began  to  realize  that  the  valu- 
ables of  the  passengers  must  have  been  left  in 


A  VERY  LITTLE  FELLOW  27 

the  ambulance.  Then  they  sprang  on  their 
horses,  spurred  them  forward,  and  dashed  down 
the  road  after  the  ambulance  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye. 

Meanwhile,  as  the  mules  dashed  away,  Jerry 
had  crawled  up  on  the  driver's  seat,  and  seizing 
the  reins  with  skillful  hands,  was  soon  guiding 
the  runaway  animals  down  the  long  slope  and 
up  the  hill  on  the  other  side.  At  the  top  he 
glanced  behind  in  time  to  see  the  highwaymen 
mount  their  horses ;  then  the  mules  dashed  down 
the  next  hill,  and  Jerry  clung  to  the  reins  with 
all  his  strength. 

Fortunately  the  road  was  straight  and  smooth 
at  this  point,  and  as  the  moon  was  rising,  objects 
could  be  seen  for  a  long  distance  ahead.  Just 
how  long  he  could  keep  ahead  of  the  pursuers 
depended  on  how  fresh  their  horses  might  be, 
for  the  mules  had  already  had  a  long  trip,  and 
as  their  fear  disappeared  they  began  to  slacken 
their  pace. 

In  the  frosty  air  sounds  could  be  heard  for 
a  long  distance,  and  Jerry  felt  sure,  before  long, 
that  his  pursuers  were  steadily  gaining  on  him. 
But  he  urged  the  animals  on  with  the  whip, 


28  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

hoping  that  he  might  soon  strike  a  ranch  or  meet 
a  friendly  face. 

But  a  new  danger  presented  itself.  At  a  point 
near  at  hand  the  road  made  a  sweeping  turn  to 
the  left,  in  order  to  avoid  some  jutting  spurs  of 
bluffs  on  the  right.  Here  it  seemed  apparent 
that  the  outlaws  would,  by  moving  across  coun- 
try, overtake  the  ambulance,  and  this  is  exactly 
what  they  attempted  to  do.  One  of  the  men  kept 
straight  along  the  road,  while  the  other  two 
turned  across  the  level  plain,  gaining  perceptibly 
at  every  bound  of  their  wiry  mustangs. 

Still,  Jerry  hung  to  the  reins,  although  his 
arms  were  aching  from  fingers  to  shoulders,  and 
he  felt  almost  sure  that,  unless  something  un- 
foreseen should  occur,  he  would  be  overtaken. 
What  would  become  of  him  he  did  not  know. 
The  pistol-shot  which  he  had  heard  while  he 
was  concealed  might  have  killed  one  of  the 
party,  and  the  same  fate  might  be  awaiting  him. 
He  had  a  confused  idea  at  one  time  of  jumping 
from  the  ambulance  and  concealing  himself 
in  the  hills,  but  he  gave  it  up.  He  would  stick 
to  the  ambulance  and  mules,  come  what  might. 

What  actually  did  happen  was  this:  As  the 
ambulance  approached  the  bluffs,  nearer  and 


A  VERY  LITTLE  FELLOW  29 

nearer,  Jerry  saw  the  two  men  to  the  left  turn 
suddenly  about,  and  race  quite  as  hard  to  the 
rear  as  they  had  previously  been  racing  to  the 
front  Another  moment,  and  the  cause  of  their 
precipitate  flight  was  apparent.  A  roaring 
camp  fire  at  the  edge  of  the  bluffs,  hiherto  con- 
cealed from  view,  rose  in  sight,  and  by  its  light 
Jerry  saw  white  tents,  and  a  dozen  of  Uncle 
Sam's  soldiers  sprawling  about,  eating  supper. 
Never  had  the  blue  uniform,  everywhere  sym- 
bol of  law  and  order,  looked  so  fascinating,  and 
Jerry  had  to  choke  down  a  big  lump  which  in- 
sisted on  rising  in  his  throat  as  he  realized  that 
he  was  among  friends. 

The  mules  slowed  up  as  they  caught  sight  of 
the  little  camp,  and  brayed  loudly.  They  were 
answered  by  a  friendly  bray  from  the  mules  in 
camp,  and  in  a  few  seconds  more  were  standing 
quietly  by  the  bales  of  hay,  impatient  for  some 
kind  hand  to  unharness  them  and  give  them  their 
supper. 

Friendly  faces  crowded  about  Jerry,  and 
friendly  hands  helped  him  down  from  the  am- 
bulance, for  his  stiffened  arms  and  legs  refused 
to  act  as  they  usually  did. 

Jerry's  story  was  soon  told,  and  the  sergeant 


30  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

in  charge  of  the  detachment,  which  was  on  its 
way  to  the  railroad  with  wagons  for  commis- 
sary stores,  hurriedly  mounted  a  few  of  his  men 
to  look  for  the  outlaws — a  task  which  proved, 
in  the  end,  to  be  fruitless.  The  camp  mules,  too, 
were  quickly  harnessed  to  the  ambulance,  and 
several  of  the  soldiers  went  back  after  the  party 
which  had  been  so  unceremoniously  left  in  the 
road — a  number  of  miles  to  the  rear.  Jerry,  his 
precious  hat  by  his  side,  sat  by  the  blazing  fire, 
and,  between  bites  of  hot  supper  served  on  a  tin 
plate,  recited  over  again,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
camp  cook,  the  story  of  his  fast  drive  over  the 
hills. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  the  ambulance  again 
appeared,  and,  crowded  as  it  was,  Jerry  was 
taken  inside  at  once,  and  as  the  ambulance 
rumbled  along  to  the  ranch  near  by,  he  went 
over  the  whole  affair  again. 

The  ranch  was  soon  reached,  and  Jerry,  you 
may  be  sure,  was  the  hero  of  the  hour.  He  had 
to  eat  another  supper  with  his  enthusiastic 
friends ;  and  afterwards,  like  a  game  of  forfeits, 
each  member  of  the  party,  save  the  major,  was 
called  upon  to  redeem  the  property  which  had 
so  hastily  been  stuffed  into  Jerry's  capacious  hat. 


A  VERY  LITTLE  FELLOW  31 

'^You're  a  little  fellow,  Jerry,"  said  the  sur- 
geon, "but  it's  lucky  for  us  in  many  ways  that 
you  have  a  big  head,  and  consequently  a  big 
hat,"  to  which  all  the  others,  save  the  major  and 
the  baby,  gave  unqualified  assent. 

The  baby  was  asleep;  and  the  major,  dis- 
gusted that  he  had  lost  his  valuables  through 
his  own  stupidity,  simply  looked  gloomy. 

"I  don't  care  so  much  about  the  money,"  said 
he.  "Luckily  it  did  not  amount  to  a  great  deal. 
But  there's  that  watch,  an  heirloom  in  my  family 
for  nearly  a  hundred  years — I  wouldn't  have  lost 
it  for—" 

But  he  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  and  no  one 
ever  knew  just  what  the  major  would  have  said. 
For,  from  the  moment  that  he  mentioned  the 
watch,  Jerry  had  been  tugging  at  one  of  his  tight, 
little  pockets  until  he  was  red  in  the  face. 

"I  almost  forgot,"  said  he,  eagerly.  And  in 
another  moment,  from  where  it  was  crowded  in 
with  a  soiled  handkerchief,  an  exploded  cart- 
ridge, a  one-bladed  knife,  and  a  broken  jews- 
harp,  Jerry  dragged  forth  in  triumph  the  ma- 
jor's missing  watch. 

"How  in  the  name  of  all  that's  good,"  gasp- 
ed the  delighted  major,  "did  you  get  it?'^ 


32  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

"I  took  it  out  of  your  vest  pocket  when  I 
squeezed  up  between  your  knees  in  the  ambu- 
lance," answered  the  equally  pleased  Jerry. 

And  every  one,  including  the  major,  agreed 
that  under  the  circumstances  it  was  a  perfectly 
justifiable  case  of  pocket-picking,  and  that  there 
are  many  advantages  in  being  a  very  little  fel- 
low, provided  that  one  has  a  clear  head  and  a 
sure  hand. 


HOW  REDDY  GAINED  HIS 
COMMISSION 

The  Story  of  a  Rescue 

I 

f^UARD- MOUNTING  was  over.  The 
^^  commanding  officer  in  the  adjutant's  office 
,was  occupied  with  the  daily  routine  business  of 
a  frontier  post.  At  tables  near  him  sat  the  post- 
adjutant,  the  acting  sergeant-major,  and  a  sol- 
dier clerk,  writing  and  making  up  the  semiweek- 
ly  mail  for  the  post-office  beyond  the  neighbor- 
ing river. 

Upon  a  bench  outside  the  door,  serving  his 
tour  as  office  orderly,  lounged  a  boy  musician. 
He  leaned  listlessly  against  the  wall  of  the 
building,  apparently  oblivious  to  the  grandeur 
of  the  views  around  him.  To  the  south,  across  an 
undulating  plain,  seventy  miles  away,  were  the 
twin  Spanish  Peaks.  To  the  west,  the  Cuerno 
Verde  range  let  itself  down  to  the  plain  by  a 


34  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

succession  of  lesser  elevations,  terminating  in 
rounded  foot-hills,  forty  miles  distant.  Eighty 
miles  to  the  northwest  towered  the  majestic  form 
of  Pike's  Peak. 

The  fort  was  occupied  by  a  troop  of  cavalry 
and  a  company  of  infantry,  the  captain  of  the 
infantry  being  in  command.  This  officer  was 
now  attaching  his  signature  to  various  military 
documents.  When  the  last  paper  was  signed 
the  young  orderly  entered,  and,  standing  at 
"attention"  before  the  captain,  said : 

"Sir,  my  mother  would  like  to  speak  to  the 
commander." 

"Very  well,  Maloney ;  take  these  papers  to  the 
quatermaster  and  the  surgeon,  and  tell  your 
mother  to  come  in." 

The  orderly  departed,  and  soon  after  a  rud- 
dy-faced, substantial  daughter  of  Erin  entered, 
her  sleeves  rolled  above  her  elbows,  and  her 
vigorous  hands  showing  the  soft,  moist,  and 
wrinkled  appearance  that  indicates  recent  and 
long-continued  contact  with  the  contents  of  the 
wash-tub.    Dropping  a  courtesy,  she  said: 

"Can  the  commanding  officer  spare  me  a  few 
minutes  of  his  toime?" 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  35 

"With  pleasure.  Sergeant-major,  place  a 
chair  for  Mrs.  Maloney,"  said  Captain  Bartlett. 

"Oi  want  to  spake  a  worrud  about  me  b'y 
Teddy,  son" 

"What  is  it  about  your  son?  Does  he  need 
disciplining?" 

Seating  herself  upon  the  edge  of  the  proffered 
chair,  the  Irish  woman  clasped  her  moist  hands 
in  her  lap,  and  said : 

"Small  doubt  but  he  nades  disc//>lining,  cap- 
tain ;  but  it  is  of  the  great  danger  to  his  loif e  in 
carryin'  th'  mail  oi  want  t'  spake." 

"A  mother's  nervous  fear,  perhaps.  He's  an 
excellent  horseman.  You  are  not  afraid  he  will 
be  thrown?" 

"Oh,  not  at  ahl,  at  ahl,  son  He  sthicks  to 
the  muel  loike  a  bur-r-r.  I  belave  no  buckin' 
baste  can  throw  'im.  It's  that  roarin'  river  oi'm 
afeared  of.  The  min  at  the  hay-camp,  whose 
business  it  is  to  row  the  mail  acrass  the  strame, 
let  Teddy  and  Reddy  do  it,  do  ye  know,  sor,  and 
oi  fear  in  the  prisint  stage  of  the  wather,  and  the 
dispisition  of  the  b'yes  to  be  larkin'  in  the  boat, 
they'll  overset  it,  and  be  dhrowned." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  the  boys  use  the  boat?" 
asked  the  captain. 


36  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

"Iv'ry  mail-day  for  the  last  two  wakes,  sor." 

"And  you  really  think  them  in  danger,  Mrs. 
Maloney?    I  am  sure  they  both  swim." 

"That's  jist  it,  sor!  They're  not  contint  to 
row  quiately  over  loike  min,  but  they  must  thry 
all  sorts  of  antics  with  th'  boat.  ^Rowin'  aich 
other  round'  is  one  of  'em.  Whin  oi  spake  about 
it  they  says  they  can  swim.  Small  chance  aven 
a  good  swimmer  would  have  in  that  roarin' 
river,  with  its  quicksands,  its  snags,  and  its  bars." 

"Well,  I  will  order  the  hay-camp  detail  to 
do  the  boating  hereafter,  Mrs.  Maloney;  so  you 
need  have  no  further  anxiety." 

"Thank  you,  sor.  It's  no  liss  than  oi  expected 
from  a  koindly  and  considerate  gintleman  loike 
th'  captain.  Oi  hope  you'll  overlook  a  mother's 
anxiety  and  worrimint  over  her  only  b'y.  It's 
not  mesilf  would  be  interfarin'  with  the  com- 
manding officer's  duties,  but  oi  knowed  that  you 
niver  mint  for  Reddy  and  Teddy  to  be  rowin' 
that  bit  of  a  skift,  whin  it  belonged  to  the  min 
at  the  hay-camp  to  do  the  same.  Good-day,  sor, 
and  many  thanks  for  your  kindness,  captain." 
And  with  much  ceremonious  leave-taking  the 
laundress  backed  out  of  the  office  and  hurried 
back  to  her  tubs. 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  37 

"Mr.  Dayton,"  said  the  commanding  ofScer, 
"write  Corporal  Duffy  to  hereafter  allow  no 
person  not  a  member  of  his  party  to  row  the 
mail-boat  across  the  river,  unless  he  brings  au- 
thority from  this  office." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  letter  had  been  written  and  sealed  when 
Teddy  returned,  having  changed  the  full-dress 
coat  and  helmet  of  guard-mounting  for  a  blouse, 
forage-cap,  and  leather  leggings.  Nearly  an 
hour  before  his  drum  had  rattled  an  exhilarating 
accompaniment  to  the  fife,  as  the  guard  of  twelve 
privates  and  three  non-commissioned  officers 
marched  in  review  and  turned  off  to  the  guard- 
house. Now  he  stood  at  the  door  with  spurred 
heels  and  gauntleted  hands,  ready  to  receive  the 
mail-pouch  and  ride  his  little  zebra-marked 
mule  to  the  crossing,  two  miles  from  the  fort. 

The  sergeant-major  handed  him  the  pouch 
and  the  letter  addressed  to  the  corporal,  with 
this  injunction: 

"You  are  to  deliver  this  letter  to  Corporal 
Duffy  at  the  hay-camp,  and  he  will  give  you 
some  instructions  which  you  are  to  obey  care- 
fully." 

Slinging  the  pouch  over  his  shoulder,   and 


38  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

tucking  the  letter  under  his  waist-belt,  the  boy 
went  to  his  mule  behind  the  office,  mounted, 
and  rode  away.  Passing  the  quartermaster's 
corral,  another  boy,  similarly  attired,  and 
mounted  on  a  piebald  mustang,  dashed  out  with 
a  whoop,  and  the  two  went  cantering  down  the 
slope  to  the  meadow  below* 

Arriving  side  by  side  at  a  soapweed  which 
marked  the  southern  limit  of  the  river-bottom, 
the  boys  put  their  beasts  to  the  height  of  their 
speed,  and  rode  for  a  dead  cottonwood  which 
raised  its  bleached  and  barkless  branches  beside 
the  road  three  hundred  yards  beyond. 

This  stretch  was  raced  over  every  mail-day, 
with  varying  victory  for  horse  and  mule.  To- 
day the  mule  reached  the  tree  half  a  length 
ahead,  and  Teddy  was  consequently  in  high  glee. 

"Ah,  Reddy,  my  boy!"  he  shouted.  "Eight 
times  to  your  six!  Better  swap  that  pony  for 
a  mule,  if  you  want  to  stand  any  chance  with 
Puss!" 

"Pshaw!  You  were  nearly  a  length  ahead 
when  we  reached  the  soapweed,  and  I  almost 
made  it  up.  Bronc  can  beat  Puss  any  time  when 
they  start  even." 

"I  should  say  so!"  with  great  disdain.    "How 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  39 

about  that  day  when  you  got  off  a  length  and  a 
half  ahead,  and  I  led  you  half  a  neck  at  the 
Cottonwood?" 

"You  mean  the  day  Bronc  got  a  stone  in  his 
shoe?    Of  course  he  couldn't  run  then." 

The  two  young  soldiers  rode  on  at  an  easy 
canter,  warmly  disputing,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  over  the  merits  of  their  well-matched 
animals. 

Redmond  Carter  was  the  fifer,  as  Edward 
Maloney  was  the  drummer,  of  the  infantry  com- 
pany. The  latter,  the  son  of  a  laundress,  was  a 
graceful  and  soldierly  boy,  dark-complexioned, 
with  black  eyes  and  hair,  who  bestrode  his  mule 
with  easy  confidence,  riding  like  a  Cossack.  The 
other  boy,  a  blond-haired,  blue-eyed  lad  of  the 
same  age,  quite  as  tall,  but  more  delicately  built, 
showed  less  reckless  activity  in  the  saddle,  but 
he  was  a  fine  and  graceful  equestrian,  neverthe- 
less. He  had  enlisted  a  year  before,  in  Philadel- 
phia, naming  that  city  as  his  residence;  but  cer- 
tain peculiarities  of  speech  led  Captain  Bartlett 
to  believe  him  a  New-Englander.  He  used 
better  language  than  his  fellows,  and  it  seemed 
he  had  received  good  school  advantages  before 
entering  the  army. 


40      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

For  instance,  one  day  when  it  was  Carter^s 
turn  to  be  office  orderly,  while  sitting  at  the  door 
he  overheard  Captain  Bartlett,  who  was  writing 
a  private  letter,  ask  the  adjutant,  ''How  does 
that  Latin  quotation  run,  Dayton — 'Timeo 
Danaos  et  dona  ferentesi  or  'Danaos  et  dona 
jerentes?'  ^' 

"Blest  if  I  know.  We  don't  waste  time  on 
dead  languages  at  the  Point,  as  you  college  men 
do.  I  can  give  you  the  equation  of  a  parabola 
if  you  want  it." 

Captain  Bartlett  did  not  ask  for  the  equation, 
or  explain  his  reason  for  wanting  the  proper 
order  of  the  Latin  sentence ;  but,  the  morning's 
office  work  concluded,  and  the  orderly  having 
departed,  as  he  and  the  adjutant  were  passing 
out  of  the  doorway  the  latter  noticed  a  leaf  of  a 
memorandum-pad  lodged  against  the  leg  of  the 
bench  just  vacated.  A  drawing  on  its  surface 
attracting  his  attention,  he  picked  it  up.  It  was 
a  very  creditable  sketch  of  a  huge  wooden  horse 
standing  within  the  wall  of  an  ancient  city,  and 
a  party  of  Grecian  soldiers  in  the  act  of  descend- 
ing by  a  ladder  from  an  opening  in  its  side.  Be- 
neath the  drawing  was  written  ^^Quicquid  id  est, 
timeo  Danaos  et  dona  ferentes. — ^iEneid,  II.,  49.'* 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  41 

"Here,  captain,"  said  Mr.  Dayton,  handing 
the  paper  to  the  post  commander;  "here's  the 
answer  to  your  question." 

"What — that  boy  Carter?  How  does  a  boy 
like  that  come  to  be  a  musician  in  the  army?"  • 

"Can't  tell.  Probably  for  the  same  reason  that 
an  occasional  graduate  of  a  foreign  university 
turns  up  in  the  ranks — hard  times  and  want  in 
civil  life,  and  plenty  of  clothing  and  food  in 
military  life." 

"He  is  indeed  a  bright  boy,  and  I  have  noticed 
a  certain  refinement  of  manner  and  precision  of 
speech  not  common  to  men  in  the  ranks.  I  must 
inquire  about  him." 

The  two  "music  boys,"  Teddy  and  Reddy, 
were  fast  friends  and  constant  companions. 
They  made  common  cause  in  all  quarrels  and 
disputes,  and  to  ill-treat  one  was  to  ill-treat  both. 
Teddy  was  frequently  in  trouble,  and  his  friend 
often  pleaded  for  him  at  headquarters.  Ind- 
deed,  the  adjutant  frequently  declared  that  "but 
for  that  rampageous  young  Celt,  Carter  would 
never  be  in  trouble."  He  was  quiet  by  nature, 
and  punctilious  in  the  observance  of  the  most 
exacting  requirements  of  discipline;  while  Ted- 
dy, through  carelessness,  was  now  and  then  sub- 


42      BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

jected  to  punishment.  Mrs.  Maloney,  while 
bestowing  a  tender  mother's  love  upon  her 
darling  son,  entertained  a  kindly  regard, 
mingled  with  great  respect,  for  his  friend,  and 
looked  after  Reddy's  clothing  and  belongings 
quite  as  carefully  as  after  Teddy's. 

Reddy  divided  the  duty  of  mail-carrier  and 
office  orderly  with  his  fellow-musician,  yet  it 
rarely  happened  that  one  rode  without  the 
other's  company.  An  indulgent  corralmaster 
had  obtained  the  consent  of  the  quartermaster  to 
allow  two  ^^surplus  animals"  to  be  used  exclu- 
sively by  the  boys,  provided  they  would  take 
care  of  them. 

On  reaching  the  river  the  boys  drew  up  be- 
fore two  tents  pitched  in  a  small  grove  of  cot- 
tonwoods  upon  the  grassy  bank,  and  occupied 
by  a  corporal  and  three  privates,  whose  duty  it 
was  to  keep  the  cattle  of  the  neighboring 
ranchmen  from  trespassing  upon  the  meadows 
of  the  military  reservation. 

The  lads  dismounted,  Teddy  going  to  the 
corporal's  tens  to  deliver  the  adjutant's  letter. 
But  the  corporal  was  not  in,  having  gone  with 
two  of  his  men  to  drive  some  cattle  out  of  the 
bottom. 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  43 

"I  will  take  the  letter  to  Corporal  Duffy, 
Ted,"  said  Redmond,  "while  you  row  over  with 
the  mail-bag.  Row  well  up  stream  before  you 
attempt  to  cross,  so  as  not  to  get  sucked  into  the 
rapids." 

"All  right,"  replied  the  orderly;  "and  when 
I  come  back  we'll  see  which  can  row  the  other 
round." 

"That's  already  settled.  I  rowed  you  round 
the  last  two  times,"  said  Reddy. 

"Yes;  one  day  when  my  wrist  was  lame,  and 
the  other  when  I  had  cut  my  thumb." 

"Anything  ail  you  to-day?" 

"I  believe  not." 

"Then  we  will  try  it  again ;  and  be  sure  if  I 
row  you  round,  you  are  not  to  lay  your  defeat 
to  sprains,  cuts,  or  rheumatism." 

Redmond  remounted  his  pony  and  started  in- 
to the  meadow,  while  Teddy,  having  picketed 
his  mule,  stepped  into  a  neat  wherry  tied  to  the 
bank.  He  was  not  unconscious  that  he  was  dis- 
obeying orders,  for  his  mother  had  told  him  the 
result  of  her  interview  with  the  commanding 
officer;  but  the  order  was  not  officially  pub- 
lished, and  he  wanted  to  have  one  last  pull  on 
the  river. 


44      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

It  was  in  July,  the  season  of  freshets  in  streams 
having  their  sources  in  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
when  the  warmer  the  weather  the  faster  the 
snows  melt  and  the  deeper  and  more  rapid  the 
stream.  The  silt-laden  current  swept  swiftly 
down  the  middle  stream,  swelling  into  rolling 
waves,  which  caught  the  soldier  boy's  oars  as 
the  boat  rose  on  their  crests  and  sank  in  their 
troughs. 

Reaching  the  other  side,  he  carried  the  mail- 
pouch  to  the  overland  stage  station,  and  returned 
to  the  boat.  Repeating  the  precaution  of  row- 
ing up  stream  before  venturing  to  cross,  he  ar- 
rived at  the  tents  just  as  Reddy  returned  from  an 
unsuccessful  search  for  the  corporal. 

The  adjutant's  letter  was  left  in  the  tent,  Bronc 
picketed,  and  the  boys  drew  lots  for  the  oars. 
Teddy  won  the  choice  and  selected  the  bow. 
The  contest  was  to  maintain  an  even-time  stroke, 
and  see  which  could  turn  the  boat  toward  his 
opponent — "pull  him  round,"  as  the  phrase  is. 

Barefooted,  barelegged,  bareheaded,  and  coat- 
less,  the  boys  stepped  into  the  boat.  Confident 
in  their  united  strength,  they  did  not  row  up 
the  eddy,  but  pulled  directly  from  the  shore, 
beginning  the   struggle   from  the  start.    The 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  45 

wherry  leaped  ahead,  refusing  to  turn  to  the 
right  or  left.  The  boys  were  evidently  as  well 
matched  as  their  mounts,  Puss  and  Bronc. 

The  boat  rose  and  fell  in  the  current  waves, 
and  the  oars  tripped  and  splashed  in  the  roily 
crests,  until  there  suddenly  came  a  sharp  snap, 
and  Teddy  fell  backward,  holding  aloft  the 
bladeless  half  of  an  oar.  Reddy  ceased  rowing; 
the  skiff  lost  headway  and  floated  down  the  river. 

In  the  confusion  of  the  accident  neither  boy 
saw  a  threatening  danger.  In  the  middle  of 
the  river  was  the  trunk  of  a  dead  cottonwood, 
standing  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  its 
roots  firmly  anchored  to  the  bottom.  The  boat 
floated  against  the  snag,  striking  amidships.  Its 
starboard  side  rose,  its  port  side  lowered,  the 
water  poured  over  the  gunwale,  and  in  an  in- 
stant Teddy  was  clinging  to  the  trunk,  and  Red- 
dy swimming  in  the  boiling  current.  The  boat 
hung  for  a  moment,  as  if  undecided  whether  to 
drop  to  the  right  or  left  of  the  snag,  twisting  and 
struggling  in  the  fierce  tide,  and  at  last  slid  off 
astern  and  floated  away  down-stream. 

A  foot  above  the  water  was  a  large  knot  and 
a  swell  in  the  trunk  of  the  tree.  Teddy  climbed 
above  this,  and  sat  astride  of  it,  clasping  the 


46  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

trunk  in  his  arms.  He  was  at  first  inclined  to 
treat  the  accident  with  bravado,  and  he  waved 
a  hand  above  his  head  and  shouted;  but  the 
sight  of  Reddy  floating  towards  the  rapids  froze 
his  utterance  and  paralyzed  his  arm. 

It  was  plainly  impossible  for  his  comrade  to 
swim  to  the  shore — he  was  too  near  the  danger- 
ous fall — but  he  hoped  he  might  reach  the  jam 
in  the  middle  of  its  crest. 

II 

When  Reddy  found  himself  in  the  water,  he 
realized  the  impossibility  of  swimming  to  the 
shore,  and  began  to  struggle  in  an  effort  to  reach 
the  jam.  This  jam  had  its  origin  in  a  group  of 
sandstone  bowlders  in  the  centre  of  the  river, 
on  the  edge  of  the  rapids.  The  river  debris  had 
collected  and  compacted  about  them  into  several 
square  yards  of  solid  surface.  To  the  corporal 
and  his  fellow-soldiers,  now  gathered  on  the 
shore  and  watching  the  swimmer,  it  seemed  that 
the  boy  must  be  carried  past  to  certain  death. 

They  were  ready  to  give  him  up  for  lost  when 
they  saw  him  snatch  at  a  branch  attached  to  the 
edge  of  the  jam  and  swing  himself  about,  then 
reach  a  protruding  log  and  climb  out.    Instantly 


P 

o 

g 

o 

pq 

w 


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g 


o 
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CO 

I 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  47 

he  ran  to  the  outer  end  of  the  log  and  reached 
his  floating  oar.  With  the  oar  he  caught  the 
prow  of  the  boat,  and  swinging  it  within  reach 
of  his  hand,  drew  it  out  of  the  water. 

The  soldiers  gazed  at  the  stranded  boys  in 
perplexity.  There  seemed  no  chance  of  rescu- 
ing them.  They  knew  of  no  other  boat  nearer 
than  the  next  government  post,  nor  would  a  raft 
be  of  use  at  the  head  of  the  roaring  fall.  The 
stream  was  too  deep  for  wading  and  too  near 
the  plunge  for  swimming.  The  corporal  quick- 
ly mounted  the  mule  and  rode  to  the  fort  to  re- 
port the  lads'  plight  to  the  commanding  officer. 

As  soon  as  possible  an  ambulance  containing 
the  officers  and  Mrs.  Maloney  started  for  the 
river.  They  brought  some  tools,  a  spare  oar, 
and  several  coils  of  rope.  A  few  moments  later 
nearly  all  the  men  of  the  garrison  not  on  duty 
lined  the  southern  shore.  Mrs.  Maloney's  worst 
fears  seemed  to  be  realized  when  she  saw  her 
son  clinging  helplessly  to  the  snag  in  midstream. 
Her  anguish  was  heartrending. 

"Ah,  Teddy  b^!"  she  screamed,  oblivious  to 
the  fact  that  he  could  not  hear  her  voice  above 
the  roar  of  the  water,  "don't  ye  let  go  the  tray, 
darlint!    Howld  on  till  hilp  gets  f  yez!" 


48  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

But  how  to  get  to  them,  or  to  get  anything  to 
them,  was  a  serious  question.  The  soldiers  were 
brave  and  willing  men,  but  they  did  not  possess 
the  skill  of  river-drivers  nor  the  appliances  and 
tools  of  the  craft.  If  the  boys  were  only  a  mile 
farther  up  stream,  clear  of  the  rapids,  a  score 
of  swimmers  could  take  lines  out  to  them;  or, 
for  that  matter,  the  boys  could  swim  ashore  with- 
out assistance.  The  close  vicinity  of  the  snag  to 
the  plunging  and  tumultuous  descent  in  the  river 
made  all  the  difference. 

Experiment  after  experiment  was  tried.  Sev- 
eral brave  fellows  in  turn  tied  the  end  of  the 
rope  to  their  waists  and  swam  out;  but  the  cur- 
rent pulling  at  the  slack  between  them  and  the 
shore  drew  them  back.  Another  went  far  up 
stream  and  swam  out,  while  the  shore  end  of 
the  rope  was  carried  down  by  comrades  at  the 
same  rate  as  the  flow  of  the  current.  He  suc- 
ceeded in  grasping  the  snag;  but  the  instant  he 
paused  the  titanic  force  of  the  water  tore  him 
away,  burying  him  beneath  the  surface.  He  was 
drawn  ashore  and  nearly  drowned. 

The  commanding  officer  was  about  to  send  to 
the  fort  for  material  for  a  raft  and  an  anchor, 
when  his  attention  was  called  to  the  boy  on  the 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  49 

jam.  After  the  failure  of  the  last  attempt  to 
rescue  his  friend,  Reddy  was  seen  to  approach 
the  boat  and  launch  it.  He  then  drew  it  to  the 
end  of  the  log  previously  mentioned,  held  it  by 
the  stern,  with  the  prow  pointed  downward,  and 
appeared  to  be  looking  for  a  passage  through 
the  submerged  bowlders.  Presently  he  turned 
towards  his  friends  on  shore,  swung  the  oar  over 
his  head,  stepped  on  board,  and  was  quickly  out 
of  sight. 

A  cry  of  alarm  went  up  from  the  soldiers 
when  Reddy  disappeared,  and  they  with  one  ac- 
cord started  on  a  run  down  the  shore.  At  the 
foot  of  the  steep  descent  they  found  the  brave 
soldier  boy  paddling  his  skiff  into  a  quiet  eddy. 

He  was  greeted  with  vociferous  enthusiasm, 
and  a  dozen  men  shouldered  him  and  the  boat, 
and  carried  them  back  to  the  landing.  There 
a  line  was  attached  to  the  stern  of  the  skiff,  and 
a  strong  man  rowed  out  towards  the  snag,  but 
the  current  dragged  it  back  precisely  as  it  had 
the  swimmers.  Captain  Bartlett  next  ordered 
the  boat  to  be  towed  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up 
stream,  and  as  it  floated  down  and  was  rowed 
outward  he  directed  the  shore  end  of  the  line  to 
be  carried  along  with  it. 


50  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

It  became  quickly  evident  to  the  spectators 
that  the  skiff  would  reach  the  snag,  and  an  in- 
voluntary cheer  went  up,  Mrs.  Maloney  waving 
her  apron  and  screaming  with  tearful  joy*  But 
through  some  blunder,  or  lack  of  skill,  the 
original  accident  was  repeated.  The  wherry 
dropped  sideways  against  the  tree  and  was 
swamped.  This  time,  however,  a  line  being 
attached,  the  skiflf  was  drawn  free,  and  swung 
back  to  the  shore  by  the  pull  of  the  current. 
The  man  clung  to  the  boat  and  was  landed  at 
the  crest  of  the  rapid. 

The  anguish  of  the  poor  mother  at  the  failure 
of  what  had  promised  to  be  certain  rescue  of 
her  son  was  pitiful.  She  fell  upon  her  knees, 
wrung  her  hands,  and  sobbed  in  abject  despair. 
Reddy  approached,  stooped  beside  her,  and 
placing  an  arm  about  her  neck,  said : 

"Do  not  cry,  Mrs.  Maloney;  I'm  going  to  ask 
the  captain  to  let  me  go  to  Teddy,  and  I'll  have 
him  here  with  you  in  no  time." 

"No,  no,  child.  Don't  ye  be  dhrowned,  too. 
Nothing  can  save  me  b'y,  now  ahl  the  min  have 
failed." 

"But  I  mean  to  try  it,  Mrs.  Maloney.  Dry 
your  tears  and  watch  me  do  it." 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  51 

Teddy  Maloney,  on  the  snag  in  mid-stream, 
was  now  suffering  intensely.  Seated  upon  a  tree 
trunk  barely  ten  inches  in  diameter,  and  kept 
from  slipping  down  its  slope  by  a  rugged  knot, 
his  position  was  almost  unendurable.  For  five 
hours  he  had  clung  there,  hatless  and  coatless, 
with  his  back  to  a  broiling  sun.  Dazed  by 
suffering  and  dizzied  by  the  leaping,  gliding, 
and  wrinkling  water  that  gurgled  and  pulled  at 
his  half-submerged  legs,  he  was  still  conscious 
of  the  efforts  being  made  for  his  rescue.  He 
saw  Reddy  shoot  the  rapids,  and  with  a  growing 
conviction  that  he  could  not  hold  on  much 
longer,  he  wondered  why  his  boy  friend  did  not 
come  to  his  aid.  "He  is  the  only  one  in  the 
whole  crowd  that  knows  anything  about  a  boat. 
Why  don't  they  let  him  do  something?"  thought 
poor  Teddy. 

As  if  in  answer  to  this  silent  appeal,  Redmond 
Carter  at  the  same  moment  approached  Captain 
Bartlett  and  begged  permission  to  go  for  his 
comrade. 

"But,  Carter,  how  can  you  expect  to  accom- 
plish what  these  older  and  stronger  men  have 
failed  to  do?"  asked  the  captain. 

"They  do  not  know  what  to  do,  sir.    I  was 


52  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

born  on  the  Kennebec,  sir.  I  have  run  bare- 
footed on  booms,  rafts,  and  jams,  and  have 
boated  in  birch  canoes,  dugouts,  punts  and  yawls, 
and  I  can  run  a  rapid,  as  you  have  just  seen." 

"A  Kennebec  boy,  Reddy!"  said  the  officer, 
for  the  first  time  using  the  boy's  pet  name.  "I 
know  what  Kennebec  boys  could  do  when  I  was 
one  of  them.    You  may  try  it;  but  be  careful." 

Reddy  sprang  into  the  boat  and  began  rowing 
up  stream  in  the  shore  eddy.  Reaching  the  de- 
sired distance  he  turned  into  the  middle  of  the 
river,  and,  changing  his  seat  to  the  stern  and 
using  an  oar  for  a  paddle,  he  dropped  down  the 
current  towards  the  snag.  As  he  neared  it,  he 
saw  Teddy's  hands  relax  and  his  body  sway 
slightly  to  the  right. 

"Hold  on,  Teddy!"  he  shouted.  "Keep  your 
grip!    I'm  right  here!" 

Gliding  along  the  right  side  of  the  trunk  he 
stayed  the  motion  of  the  skiff  by  grasping  it  with 
his  left  hand. 

"Tumble  in,  Teddy— quick !"  he  said. 

Teddy  obeyed,  literally  falling  into  the  bot- 
tom of  the  boat,  limp  and  sprawling  between  the 
thwarts. 

Reddy  let  go  the  trunk  and  went  towards  the 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  53 

rapids,  taking  the  crest  at  the  same  place  he 
had  taken  it  before.  Down,  down  the  boil- 
ing, foaming,  roaring  descent  he  sped,  plying  his 
oar  with  all  his  might,  lest  in  turning  a  frothing 
Scylla  he  might  be  hurled  upon  a  thundering 
Charybdis.     His  former  success  attended  him. 

Again  the  soldiers  ran  to  meet  him  at  the  foot 
of  the  watery  slope,  filling  the  air  with  shouts 
as  they  ran.  But  the  sight  of  Teddy  lying  sense- 
less in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  checked  further 
joyous  demonstration.  He  was  tenderly  lifted  in 
stalwart  arms  and  borne  to  a  grassy  knoll  near 
by,  where  he  was  received  by  his  anxious  mother 
and  the  surgeon.  Restorative  treatment  brought 
him  back  to  consciousness,  and  he  was  taken 
at  once  to  the  fort.  The  wherry  was  again 
carried  to  the  landing  before  the  hay-camp,  and 
the  crowd  of  soldiers  dispersed  through  the 
ravines  and  groves  in  the  direction  of  their  bar- 
racks. 

Captain  Bartlett  accompanied  Redmond  Car- 
ter to  the  place  where  the  mule  and  pony  were 
picketed,  and,  saying  that  he  would  ride  Puss 
to  the  post,  ordered  one  of  the  men  to  saddle  her, 
and  entered  into  conversation  with  the  boy. 


54      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

**I  think  you  are  out  of  place  in  the  army, 
Carter,"  said  he. 

"What,  sir!  Have  I  not  always  done  my  duty 
well?"  asked  Reddy,  in  dismay. 

"Much  better  than  the  average  soldier.  But 
that  is  not  what  I  mean.  You  seem  qualified 
for  something  better  than  the  position  you  oc- 
cupy. You  are  not  of  the  material  from  which 
the  army  is  usually  recruited.  This  slip  of  pa- 
per, found  beside  the  orderly  bench  at  the 
office,"  observed  the  officer,  handing  the  boy 
his  sketch  of  the  Trojan  horse  with  the  accom- 
panying Latin  sentence,  "shows  that  you  have 
been  a  student.  I  do  not  know  what  accident 
brought  you  here,  but  I  think  school  is  the 
proper  place  for  you." 

"Nothing  would  please  me  better,  sir,  than 
to  be  able  to  return  to  school;  but  it  is  not  possi- 
ble at  present." 

"Are  you  willing  to  tell  me  how  you  come 
to  be  in  the  service?" 

"Yes,  sir;  it  is  not  a  long  story,"  replied  the 
young  soldier.  "My  father  and  mother  died 
when  I  was  too  young  to  remember  them,  and  I 
was  left  to  the  care  of  a  guardian,  who  sent  me 
to  school,  and  afterwards  to  an  academy,  where 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  55 

I  prepared  for  college.  I  passed  my  entrance 
examination  to  the  freshman  class  in  June,  and 
expected  to  go  on  in  September ;  but  the  failure 
of  companies  in  which  my  property  had  been 
invested  left  me  destitute,  and  I  gave  it  up," 

"But  you  have  relatives?" 

"Lots  of  them ;  but  they  showed  little  inclina- 
tion to  help  me.  There  had  been  some  family 
diilerences  that  I  never  understood,  and  I  was 
to  proud  to  go  begging  for  assistance,  I  shipped 
on  a  granite-schooner  for  Philadelphia.  I  was 
miserably  seasick  the  whole  trip,  and  was  dis- 
charged by  the  master  of  the  vessel  without  pay. 
Having  no  money  I  could  not  find  food  while 
looking  for  work.  I  obtained  an  odd  job  now 
and  then,  but  soon  wore  my  clothes  to  rags,  so 
that  no  respectable  establishment  would  think 
of  hiring  me.  I  slept  on  the  streets,  and  fre- 
quently passed  a  day  without  proper  food.  One 
day  I  passed  a  recruiting-office,  and  it  suggested 
a  means  of  escape  from  destitution.  I  enlisted 
as  a  fifer,  and  was  assigned  to  your  company." 

"And  you  have  been  with  me  ten  months," 
said  the  captain.  "I  suppose  your  relatives  can- 
not trace  you?" 

"They  might  trace  me  to  Philadelphia,"  re- 


56  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

plied  Reddy ;  "but  the  trail  becomes  dark  there. 
Even  if  they  suspected  I  had  enlisted — ^which 
is  not  likely — they  could  not  find  me,  for  the 
recruiting  sergeant  blundered  in  registering  my 
Carter,  when  he  should  have  written  it  Raymond 
J.  Corser." 

"Not  a  rare  mistake  of  the  recruiting  officer. 
So  you  are  of  the  General  Corser  family?" 

"He  was  my  grandfather." 

"Then  you  have  only  to  communicate  with 
your  relatives  in  order  to  get  out  of  the  army. 
Yours  is  an  influential  family." 

"I  shall  serve  out  my  enlistment,  sir.  The 
army  has  served  me  a  good  turn,  and  when  I 
am  discharged  I  shall  be  in  better  condition  to 
find  employment  than  in  Philadelphia." 

"But  what  has  become  of  your  college  aspi- 
rations?" 

"It  will  still  be  possible  to  accomplish  that. 
Sergeant  Von  Wold  and  I  are  studying  together, 
and  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  enter  sophomore. 
Poor  boys  have  worked  their  way  before." 

"I  have  noticed  Von  Wold.    Is  he  a  scholar?" 

"Please  not  to  mention  it,  sir;  he  is  a  German 
university  man.  When  I  am  discharged  I  shall 
have  most  of  my  five  years'  pay,  and  consider- 


REDDY  GAINS  HIS  COMMISSION  57 

able  savings  on  clothing  not  drawn.  I  expect 
it  will  amount  to  nearly  eight  hundred  dollars." 

For  a  few  moments  the  officer  said  nothing, 
but  gazed  reflectively  across  the  rushing  and 
roaring  river.  At  last  he  turned  again  towards 
the  boy  and  asked,  "How  would  you  like  to  be 
an  officer  in  the  army,  Carter?" 

"I  should  like  it  above  all  things,  sir;  but  it 
is  not  possible.  While  I  might  make  a  struggle 
single-handed  through  college,  I  could  scarcely 
hope  to  secure  an  appointment  to  West  Point." 

"Still  there  is  a  way.  The  late  Congress 
passed  a  law  allowing  men  who  have  served  two 
years  in  the  army,  and  been  favorably  recom- 
mended by  their  officers,  to  be  examined  for 
appointment  to  the  grade  of  second  lieutenant. 
You  have  a  little  more  than  four  years  to  serve. 
In  that  time  you  will  have  reached  the  required 
age,  and  Lieutenant  Dayton  and  I  can  give  you 
the  necessary  instruction.    What  do  you  say?" 

"I'll  make  a  hard  struggle  for  it,  sir,  if  you 
;will  afford  me  the  chance." 

Five  years  later  Sergeant  Redmond  A.  Carter 
passed  a  successful  examination  for  a  second 
lieutenancy  in  the  army,  and  was  commissioned 


58      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

in  the  artillery  under  his  proper  name,  Raymond 
J.  Corser. 

Edward  Maloney,  who  excelled  in  physical 
rather  than  intellectual  attainments,  continued 
in  the  service,  becoming  at  the  time  of  his  second 
enlistment  first  sergeant  of  Captain  Bartlett's 
company. 


AT  THE  HELIO  STATION 

The  Capture  of  Alchise 

T?OR  two  months  L  Troop  of  the  Third 
^  United  States  Cavalry  had  been  chasing 
Alchise  and  his  band  of  hostile  Apaches  over  the 
roughest  ground  in  the  world — the  Sierra 
Mogollon  of  southeastern  Arizona.  Alchise 
was  a  negroid  half-breed,  and  had  been  one  of 
Geronimo's  lieutenants,  in  which  capacity  he 
had  fought  General  Crook,  and  had  consider- 
ably excelled  his  superior  officer  in  ingenious 
atrocities.  The  traces  of  his  progress  that  L 
Troop  frequently  encountered  were  such  as  to 
convince  them  that  he  had  lost  none  of  his 
wickedness  with  years.  Yet  for  nearly  nine 
weeks  it  had  been  impossible  to  come  to  closer 
quarters  with  the  hostiles  than  a  telescopic 
glimpse  of  a  dirt-brown  figure  skulking  among 
the  rocks  a  mile  away,  or  a  long-range  rifle  slug 

59 


60  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

dropped  scientifically  into  the  camp  at  about  a 
thousand  yards. 

At  last,  however,  success  seemed  within  reach. 
The  friendly  Apache  scouts  with  the  column  re- 
ported that  the  enemy  had  established  a  ranche- 
sia  deep  in  a  defile  of  the  San  Francisco  range, 
where  there  were  warriors,  and  women,  and 
children,  and  numerous  pits  in  which  fires  were 
built  to  stew  the  leaves  of  the  maguey  plant, 
from  which  an  intoxicating  drink  is  made  called 
mescal.  It  was  fifty  miles  away,  and  Troop  L 
advanced  carefully  in  that  direction,  moving 
chiefly  at  night,  and  never  lighting  so  much  as 
a  match,  except  under  a  tented  screen  of 
blankets.  Then  lest  the  enemy  should  escape  at 
the  eleventh  hour,  they  left  a  detail  of  signallers 
on  the  top  of  the  Yellow  Butte,  with  orders  to 
report  by  beacon  fire  if  at  night,  and  by  helio- 
graph if  by  day,  should  they  discern  any  sign  of 
Indians  upon  the  landscape.  This  signal-station 
was  twenty  miles  from  the  column's  line  of 
march,  and  there  was  a  second  station  upon  a 
peak  more  directly  in  touch  with  the  fighting- 
line,  to  receive  messages. 

Lieutenant  Ward  Howell  was  in  charge  of 
the  heliograph  post,  and  he  had  with  him  four 


AT  THE  HELIO  STATION  61 

troopers  and  an  Apache  scout.  A  small  A-tent 
afforded  shelter  for  himself  and  for  the  signal- 
ling instrument,  and  the  troopers  built  a  ram- 
part of  rough  bowlders  all  around  the  tent,  ex- 
cept upon  the  east,  where  the  ground  dropped 
five  hundred  feet  straight  to  the  brown  'dobe 
desert  that  ran  flat  to  the  eastern  sky-line. 

There  had  been  no  sign  of  any  enemy  from  the 
pines  on  the  peaks  to  the  cacti  on  the  plains,  and 
on  the  third  evening  they  were  rolled  unexpect- 
antly  in  their  blankets  about  nine  o'clock,  when 
Lieutenant  Howell  was  aroused  by  the  sentry's 
challenge.  He  sprang  up  to  see,  by  the  starlight 
and  the  gleam  of  a  small  fire  in  the  enclosure, 
a  short,  thick-set  Indian  parleying  with  the  sen- 
tinel, who  was  barring  the  way. 

"Who's  that,  Connolly,  and  what  does  he 
want?"  demanded  the  lieutenant. 

"It's  a  'Pache,  for  sure,  soor,"  replied  the 
trooper,  richly.  "An'  I'm  thinkin'  he  do  want 
to  talk  to  yerself,  but  I  can't  be  sure,  for  he's 
shpakin'  nothin'  but  his  own  avil  lingo." 

"Let  him  come  in,  then,  if  he's  alone  and  isn't 
armed,"  replied  Howell.  And  the  Apache 
stalked  gravely  to  the  fire,  and  squatted  beside 
it  with  a  grunt  of  "How!"    He  was  stripped  to 


62      BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

the  breech-clout  and  moccasins,  his  lank,  black 
hair  confined  by  a  strip  of  red  flannel  across  the 
brows,  and  a  buckskin  ^^medicine-bag"  sus- 
pended round  his  neck.  The  gleaming  firelight 
revealed  the  most  hideously  brutal  face  that  the 
lieutenant  had  ever  seen.  Jasaspi,  the  scout, 
wormed  himself  towards  Howell  noiselessly  in 
the  darkness. 

"That's  old  Alchisel"  he  whispered,  excited- 
ly. "Ver*  maldito  bad  Injun.  He's  got  his 
warriors  out  in  the  me s quite,  you  bet.  Thinks 
he's  goin'  wipe  us  out,  or  he  wouldn't  come  in 
here.    Ugh  I" 

Suddenly  the  visitor  spoke.  Pointing  to  the 
scout,  he  said:  "Him  'terpreter?" 

''Si.  All  right.  Bueno.  Go  ahead;  he'll  in- 
terpret," replied  Howell,  and  the  chief  plunged 
into  his  oration  in  a  mixture  of  Apache  and 
Spanish,  translated  by  Jasaspi  into  a  villanous 
compound  of  tongues  which  it  would  be  mad- 
dening to  reproduce. 

"Says  the  Tinne  se  fatigan  del  guerra.  Says 
they're  tired  of  war;  want  peace.  They  ain't 
'fraid  de  los  Americanos,  but  they  can't  fight  the 
scouts.  Says  he  has  a  hundred  warriors  in  the 
chaparral,  and  he  wants  to  be  friends.     Liar! 


AT  THE  HELIO  STATION  63 

Wagh!"  added  Jasaspi  on  his  own  account,  as 
the  chief  stopped  talking. 

"Very  good,"  said  Howell.  "Tell  him  the 
sooner  he  gives  himself  up  the  better." 

This  was  interpreted,  and  the  ambassador  re- 
plied : 

"Says  your  words  are  good,  and  you  are  a 
big  chief.  Says  his  young  men  '11  want  to  kill 
us,  but  he  won't  let  them.  Wants  us  to  give  up 
our  guns,  so  his  young  men  won't  be  mad  when 
they  see  us.  Says  he'll  go  with  you  to  the  Re- 
serve, and  you'll  make  a  big  talk  to  the  agent, 
so  th.at  they'll  get  all  their  land  back." 

"Tell  him  that  we  won't  give  up  our  rifles, 
and  that  if  he  surrenders,  I'll  see  that  he's  taken 
good  care  of  till  he's  tried." 

When  this  had  been  interpreted,  the  half- 
breed  chief  said  no  more,  but  after  some  seconds 
rose  in  silence  and  turned  to  go. 

"No!"  ejaculated  Howell,  sharply.  "Sit 
down." 

There  were  three  separate  clicks  from  the 
gloom,  and  the  Apache,  turning,  saw  three  gap- 
ing muzzles  covering  his  chest.  He  grunted, 
and  after  a  moment  of  deliberation  sullenly  sat 
down  again- 


64  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

"Tie  his  feet,  Clarke,"  said  the  lieutenant* 
"I'll  fix  his  hands,  and  look  out  that  he  hasn't  a 
knife." 

But  the  Indian  made  no  resistance  beyond  a 
series  of  half-articulate  grunts.  "Says  his  war- 
riors '11  cut  our  hearts  out  and  eat  'em  if  he's 
hurt,"  interpreted  Jasaspi,  grinning. 

It  was  evidently  time  to  light  the  signal.  For 
this  purpose  a  great  pile  of  light  wood  had  been 
collected  about  twenty  feet  from  the  enclosure, 
and  Jasaspi  undertook  the  perilous  duty — peril- 
ous because  it  was  almost  certain  that  the  dense 
scrub  was  lined  with  an  unseen  but  vigilant  ene- 
my. He  wriggled  out  along  the  ground,  but  as 
the  first  blue  flame  spluttered  from  the  match 
there  were  twenty  darting  flashes  from  the  cover, 
and  a  deafening  rifle-volley.  Bullets  slapped 
viciously  into  the  fire-wood,  skipped  over  the 
stone  rampart,  an  cut  "r-r-rt"  through  the  white 
tent-covers;  but  the  fire  had  taken  hold,  and 
Jasaspi  crawled  back  as  he  had  gone,  un- 
wounded  and  triumphant.  But  the  triumph  was 
brief.  Before  one-quarter  of  the  beacon  was 
ignited  the  pile  suddenly  collapsed,  and  was 
flung  in  all  directions  by  some  unseen  agency,  but 
the  yells  of  the  savages  showed  that  some  of  the 


AT  THE  HELIO  STATION  65 

number  had  simply  crept  up  and  scattered  the 
fire.  It  lay  strewn  over  the  ground  in  scattered, 
flaming  brands,  but  in  face  of  the  concealed  rifles 
it  would  have  been  madness  for  one  of  the  lit- 
tle party  to  attempt  to  reassemble  it.  It  was 
evident  that  the  Apaches,  themselves  clever  sig- 
nallers, were  fully  alive  to  the  importance  of 
preventing  the  besieged  from  sending  any 
message. 

After  this  misfortune  there  could  be  no  pos- 
sibility of  signalling  the  column  before  sunrise, 
when  the  heliograph  could  be  used,  and  the  one 
necessity  was  to  hold  the  post  till  that  hour  for 
the  sake  of  the  campaign,  and  as  much  longer 
as  possible  for  the  sake  of  their  own  lives. 

The  heavy  firing  did  not  last  long,  and  pres- 
ently only  an  occasional  shot  snapped  out  as  an 
Apache  fancied  he  saw  a  target  over  the  low 
camp  wall.  The  blazing  brands  had  died  out, 
and  there  was  no  moon,  so  that  the  battle-field 
was  only  half  lighted  by  the  great  stars  that 
cluster  in  the  clear  Arizona  skies. 

Between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock  the 
Apaches  made  an  attempt,  some  twenty  of  them, 
to  creep  up  to  the  wall  and  overpower  the  garri- 
son at  close  quarters,  but  they  were  discovered 


66      BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

and  fired  upon  in  the  open  ground.  Two  were 
shot  as  they  lay,  and  the  rest  escaped  to  the  cha- 
parral under  a  heavy  covering  fire.  Then,  for 
a  long  time,  hostilities  lagged. 

Every  minute  passed  in  quiet  was  a  distinct 
gain  to  the  Americans.  The  procession  of  the 
brilliant  stars  went  over  from  east  to  west,  and 
the  night  passed  leaden-footed  till  it  was  that 
favorite  hour  for  Indian  attacks — that  prover- 
bially darkest  hour  which  comes  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  enemy's  fire  had 
almost  entirely  ceased,  and  this  so  disquieted  the 
soldiers  that  one  of  the  men  cautiously  kindled 
a  brand  at  the  fire  and  hurled  it  high  over  the 
rampart. 

The  brand  blazed  up  as  it  flew  through  the  air, 
and  then  fell  into  darkness,  but  the  light  had 
flashed  for  an  instant  upon  crawling  rifle-barrels 
and  belts  fitted  with  brass  cartridge-heads.  The 
discovery  was  greeted  with  shrill  whoops  and  a 
rattling  fire,  and  under  this  support  the  band  of 
Apaches,  which  had  already  approached  nearly 
to  the  camp,  sprang  up  and  endeavored  to  rush 
the  defences.  They  were  met  by  the  muzzles  of 
rifles  and  revolvers  in  the  hands  of  men  who 
worked  them  with  the  regularity  of  machinery. 


AT  THE  HELIO  STATION  67 

No  sooner  did  a  warrior  appear  at  the  rampart 
than  he  was  shot  down.  But  the  whites  them- 
selves were  not  without  loss.  The  Americans 
fought  in  silence  for  the  most  part,  but  the  high- 
pitched,  barking  yelps  of  the  Apaches  domi- 
nated the  uproar. 

The  shots  diminished  of  a  sudden,  there  was 
not  a  glimpse  of  the  enemy,  and  the  soldiers 
found  themselves  with  nothing  to  shoot  at  but 
the  occasional  flashes  from  the  thicket.  The 
attack  was  repulsed. 

Some  shooting  was  kept  up  by  the  concealed 
enemy,  but  it  was  with  less  spirit.  Howell  took 
the  covers  from  the  heliographic  mirrors  and 
adjusted  the  tripods,  ready  for  the  first  beam 
of  sunlight. 

It  was  yet  fifteen  minutes,  which  seemed  fif- 
teen months,  before  the  first  segment  of  the  sun 
appeared  above  the  straight  eastern  sk)dine.  A 
golden  ray  played  over  the  grim  scene  of  the 
battle-field,  and  the  lieutenant  sprang  up  and 
placed  his  tripods  in  position,  partly  behind  the 
tent,  which  in  some  degree  screened  him  from 
the  eyes  of  the  Apache  marksmen. 

There  was  bright  sunlight  on  the  butte  almost 


68      BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

instantly.  Directly  in  front,  six  feet  away,  the 
great  precipice  dropped  sheer,  and  away  thirty 
miles  to  the  left  rose  the  hilltop  where  the  second 
signal-station  was  placed.  The  lieutenant  fo- 
cussed  the  light  from  the  receiver  upon  the  sig- 
nalling-mirror, then  sighted  the  crossed  hairs  in 
the  telescope  upon  the  hilltop,  and  directed  the 
ray  full  upon  the  distant  station — the  calling-up 
signal.  Almost  immediately  were  seen  two 
rapid,  fiery  dots  in  the  distance,  indicating:  "Un- 
derstood.   Go  on.'' 

"Dot,  dash;  dot,  dash,  dash,  dot;  dot,  dash; 
dash,  dot,  dash,  dot,"  signalled  Howell,  his 
finger  on  the  shifting-key,  while  the  bullets  zip- 
ped around  him.  "Apaches  attacking  post  in 
force  all  night.    Have  captured  Alchise,  and — " 

There  was  a  surprising  interruption.  The 
captured  Apache  had,  as  it  transpired  later,  been 
chewing  industriously  at  his  bonds  all  through 
the  hours  of  darkness,  and  had  got  them  com- 
pletely severed.  Now,  as  if  he  had  heard  his 
name  called,  he  sprang  up  with  a  startling 
whoop,  and  made  a  dash  for  liberty.  Jassapi 
was  up  and  after  him  like  a  flash,  pulling  at  his 
pistol,  which  he  wore  in  an  open  holster,  plains 


AT  THE  HELIO  STATION  69 

fashion,  when  a  volley  blazed  out  from  the  bush. 
The  scout  stopped  short,  made  two  drunken 
steps,  and  dropped,  while  Alchise  whirled  about 
on  his  heel  and  collapsed  limply  across  the  stone- 
built  rampart. 

There  was  no  more  shooting  from  the  enemy. 
Probably  the  hostiles  recognized  immediately 
that  they  had  unwittingly  slain  their  chief,  and 
a  chief  is  prized  by  the  renegade  Apaches,  who 
depend  upon  him  for  moral  support.  The  be- 
siegers melted  away,  and  in  half  an  hour  they 
had  vanished  completely. 

But  Alchise  was  not  dead,  after  all.  He  re- 
covered consciousness  in  a  few  minutes,  and  the 
soldiers  dragged  him  back.  They  bandaged  him 
up  and  gave  him  what  relief  they  could,  for  he 
was  wanted  alive  rather  than  dead. 

That  was  practically  the  end  of  the  campaign. 
The  ranchesia  had  been  captured  on  the  night 
before,  and  the  remaining  hostiles  were  hunted 
through  the  canons  and  deserts  till  they  sur- 
rendered. Lieutenant  HowelPs  plucky  stand 
really  brought  about  most  of  this  success,  but  he 
never  got  any  official  credit  for  it,  because  hero- 
ism was  commonplace  among  officers  in  the  old 


70  BOY*S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

days  of  the  West.  Most  of  the  hostiles  were 
allowed  to  go  back  to  the  reserve  without  further 
punishment,  but  Alchise  was  tried  on  a  variety 
of  counts  after  his  recovery,  and  sentenced  to 
twenty  years  in  prison  at  Prescott,  Arizona. 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B 

The  Story  of  ^*A  Horse  as  was  a  Horse^' 
I 

TT  was  in  the  hush  of  those  quiet  hours  after 
■*■  "stables,"  when  the  golden  sunshine  fell 
aslant  through  the  skylight  over  the  rows  of 
stalls,  when  the  oats  were  finished,  and  the  only 
sound,  was  the  rustle  of  sweet-smelling  hay — 
from  which  the  dust  floated  upward  into  the 
yellow  block  of  light  above  and  filled  it  with 
dancing  motes — that  Billy  and  Bob  had  their 
most  confidential  chats.  It  was  then  that  Billy 
had  pointed  out  to  him  the  pitfalls  and  snares 
that  beset  every  young  high-tempered  horse  in 
the  service,  and  was  clearly  shown  the  error  of 
his  way;  and  it  was  then  that  he  poured  into  the 
ears  of  Bob,  that  hardened  old  campaigner,  all 
the  yearnings  and  ambitions  of  his  immature 
colthood. 
All  day  long  a  white-haired  old  major-general, 

71 


72  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

who  had  led  his  corps  through  the  Wilderness, 
sat  his  horse  on  top'of  a  hill,  and  watched  cavalry 
charge  solid  lines  of  infantry  in  the  teeth  of 
mowing  magazine  fire,  and  infantry,  in  their 
turn,  walk  calmly  up  to  the  belching  muzzles 
of  a  battery's  guns.  There  was  a  very  weary 
look  on  the  old  general's  face,  for  it  was  one  of 
those  days  they  call  "field-days,"  when,  accord- 
ing to  the  instructions  issued  on  little  slips  of 
white  and  brown  paper,  "the  conditions  of  act- 
ual warfare  are  to  be  simulated  as  far  as  possi- 
ble," and  all  the  simulation  results  in  is  noisy 
bawling  of  orders,  dust,  smoke,  and  recrimina- 
tion and  disgust  on  the  part  of  officers,  men,  and 
horses.  At  one  time,  however,  the  general's  face 
wore  a  pleasant  smile — that  was  when  B  Battery, 
enveloped  in  a  seething  cloud  of  dust,  rolled  over 
the  plain  hither  and  thither,  vomiting  forth 
flame  and  smoke,  like  some  mighty  leviathan 
warring  the  elements.  Then  the  general  had 
smiled,  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  stop-watch  tick- 
ing in  his  hand,  and  listening  to  the  cadenced 
detonations  of  the  six  Hotchkiss  pieces  as  they 
swung  "into  battery,"  right,  left,  front,  and  rear. 
By  and  by,  when  all  the  roar  and  confusion 
were  over,  and  the  battery  had  come  home,  tired, 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  73 

smoke-begrimed,  and  dusty,  with*  their  heads 
drooping  and  the  reds  of  the  choked  nostrils 
quivering,  Billy  tried  to  founder  himself  by 
drinking  a  bucket  of  water  some  one  had  care- 
lessly left  in  the  corral,  and  Bob  the  wise  had 
dragged  him  away  from  it  and  gently  kicked 
him. 

It  had  been  a  momentous  day  for  Billy.  He 
had  been  promoted  from  off-swing  horse,  No.  1 
gun,  to  near  wheeler,  same  piece — Bob,  the  reg- 
ular near-wheel  horse,  having  a  sore  back.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  military  career  he  had  felt 
a  driver's  knees  pressing  his  sides,  and  the  re- 
sponsibility that  all  this  involved  had  been  very 
great.  Then  half  the  time  the  lead  and  the 
swing  teams  stood  loose  in  their  traces,  so  that 
Billy  and  Bob  had  to  start  the  limber  unassisted. 
Between  this  and  the  responsibility  and  the  un- 
even ground,  with  the  limber  tongue  flying  up 
and  threatening  to  break  his  driver's  legs  and 
Billy's  ribs,  Billy  felt  his  lot  was  not  one  to  be 
envied. 

He  had  seen  the  sorrels  of  the  cavalry  troop 
next  door  sweep  over  the  plain  on  a  sabre  charge 
like  a  whirwind,  and  pulling  at  the  near-wheel 
trace  of  No.  1  gun  seemed  very  tame  work  com- 


74  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

pared  to  a  free,  wild  run  like  theirs  over  the 
green  bottom.  It  set  Billy  thinking  of  the  old 
blue-grass  farm  where  he  was  foaled,  with  its 
long  stretches  of  meadow  that  he  used  to  scamper 
and  frolic  over  in  his  coltish  baby  days.  Then 
he  leaned  over  and  rubbed  his  nose  along  Bob's 
neck  deferentially,  and  smiled,  softly: 

"Haven't  you  ever  longed  to  be  out  of  your 
collar  and  charge  like  the  cavalry.  Bob — just  to 
lay  yourself  out  flat  on  the  green  grass  and  go  on 
till  you  burst?" 

Bob  stopped  tossing  up  his  hay,  and  looked 
jyith  a  dignified  expression  of  pity  at  Billy. 

"My  dear  colt!  Where  are  your  thoughts 
wandering?  We  of  Battery  B  are  superior  to 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  That's  all  very  well  for 
a  harumscarum  lot  like  those  sorrels  over  the 
fence,  who  stampede  at  a  red  rag  when  they  are 
herded  out,  and  who  would  scatter  over  forty 
miles  of  country  if  you  fired  a  blank  from  our 
three  2-inch  among  'em.  But  for  us,  Billy,  our 
position  in  the  service  does  not  permit  of  such 
pranks.  And  as  for  charging,  real  charging, 
what  charge  ever  equalled  the  charge  of  Senar- 
mont's  ten  light  batteries  on  the  Russian  centre 
at  Friedland?  "They  unlimbered  120  yards  from 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  75 

the  front*  Why,  cavalry  ain't  in  it  with  us, 
Billy!" 

To  this  wise  answer,  Billy  was  unable  to  re- 
ply ;  but,  nevertheless,  deep  down  in  his  soul  was 
a  longing  for  a  frolic  on  the  old  blue-grass 
meadow,  and  a  half-formed  wish  for  a  stampede 
of  the  battery  herd — a  thing  that  never  hap- 
pened. 

They  were  all  slashing  big  bays,  the  horses 
of  Battery  B,  and  even  for  horses  of  a  crack 
light  battery  they  were  a  proud  and  exclusive 
lot.  The  service  forgives  the  artillery,  in  a 
measure,  for  their  assumption  of  superior  im- 
portance, but  so  patronizing  were  those  battery 
horses  to  the  sorrels  of  the  cavalry  troop  in  the 
adjacent  yard — ^whom  they  regarded  as  removed 
only  one  degree  from  quartermaster's  mules — 
that  the  sorrels  approached  even  the  battery 
fence  with  awe  and  trepidation. 

"There  are  whole  lots  of  things  you  don't 
know  yet,  Billy,"  said  the  sage  of  the  battery 
herd,  nosing  over  into  his  mate's  manger  for 
a  wisp  of  hay.  "Your  homesickness  for  that 
sleepy  old  farm  back  in  Kentucky  makes  me 
tired.  Instead  of  having  the  glorious  mission 
of  hauling  Uncle  Sam's  cannon  into  battle,  you'd 

♦Report  of  Marshal   Victor,   Commander-in-Chief   First   Corps. 


76      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

rather  be  hauling  potatoes  into  market  for  some 
lanky  old  farmer.  But  if  you  had  seen  what  I've 
seen,  and  heard  what  IVe  heard,  you'd  feel 
thankful  for  your  destiny.  Why,  colt,  IVe  met 
fellows  that  dragged  their  guns  up  Cemetery 
Ridge  and  Little  Round  Top,  and  saw  them  stop 
Pickett's  charge  at  the  high-water  mark  of  the 
Confederacy!  Those  fellows  saved  their  coun- 
try, Billy.  You've  a  mission,  colt — a  mission! 
And  you  want  to  get  all  those  crazy  ideas  about 
free  runs  on  the  old  farm  and  foolish  cavalry 
charges  out  of  your  head.  It's  lucky  for  you 
that  you  weighed  1500  instead  of  1100,  and 
didn't  have  skinny  withers,  or  you'd  never  have 
the  distinction  of  belonging  to  Battery  B.  You'd 
have  gone  to  the  cavalry,  and  in  four  years  the 
inspector  would  have  condemned  you  and  sold 
you  into  an  ash-cart. 

"It's  not  in  bran  mashes  and  big  feeds  of  corn 
that  the  joys  of  life  lie ;  it's  in  appreciating  your 
mission  and  making  the  most  of  it.  We  are  the 
bowels  of  the  army,  the  army  is  the  blood  and 
body  of  the  government,  and  our  government  is 
the  hope  of  the  world.  That's  what  my  father 
used  to  say  to  me,  and  he  saw  the  whole  thing 
demonstrated  in  the  rebellion.    Now  what  you 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  77 

want  to  do  is  to  study  your  job.  When  you  are 
flying  around  out  there  on  the  parade,  remember 
that  the  life  of  your  rider  and  the  cannoneers 
behind  you,  and,  in  battle,  often  the  result  of  the 
day,  depend  on  your  keeping  your  feet.  In 
^action  front,'  when  you  leave  the  piece,  throw 
yourself  into  your  collar  like  a  cannon  ball,  or 
you'll  get  pulled  over  some  time,  and,  above  all, 
keep  your  eyes  on  the  ground  so  you  can  jump 
the  hollows  and  the  limber  tongue  won't  fly  up 
and  break  your  rider's  legs.  If  you  do  that,  and 
always  have  your  tugs  taut,  you  will  get  your 
reward  some  day,  though  we  ain't  generally 
mentioned  in  histories,  Billy." 

"It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  like  that, 
Bob,"  said  Billy.  "You  are  satisfied  and  proud 
of  your  position,  but  if  your  old  home  had  been 
one  like  the  one  I  left  back  East,  you  would  feel 
differently.  There  were  no  potatoes  to  haul  and 
no  lanky  old  farmer  there.  My  sire  won  the 
blue  ribbon  on  Churchill  Downs,  and  my  master 
was  a  real,  old  Kentucky  gentleman.  I  could 
not  have  been  better  treated  if  I  had  been  the 
favorite  of  an  Arab  chief.  We  bred  racing 
stock.  Of  course,  I  was  only  a  half-breed,  and 
too  heavy  to  race,  so  I  stayed  quietly  at  home. 


78      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

Then  master's  daughter  took  a  fancy  to  me  in 
my  puppy  days,  and  made  me  her  pet.  Every 
morning  she  came  tripping  out  to  see  me  in  the 
paddock  with  an  apple  or  a  lump  of  sugar  and 
a  caress.  She  was  the  only  one  that  ever  rode  me, 
and  her  bridle  hand  was  so  light  and  her  seat 
so  firm  and  gentle  that  it  was  a  joy  to  have  her 
on  one's  back.  We  were  all  very  happy  back 
there  in  those  days,  Bob,  except  master,  who  was 
always  worried  and  sad.  You  see,  the  prices  of 
horses  had  been  sinking  lower  every  year,  and 
the  mortgage  on  the  farm  was  eating  everything 
away,  and  master  saw  the  day  staring  him  in 
the  face  when  all  he  had  would  have  to  be  sold 
to  pay  it.  The  day  came,  sure  enough,  with  the 
sheriff  and  the  red  auction  flag,  along  with  the 
throngs  of  curious,  callous,  hard-featured  peo- 
ple. There  were  some  white  faces  in  the  family, 
but  not  a  word  of  complaint  from  master's  wife 
and  daughter,  who  went  about  calm  and  com- 
posed, with  a  brave  smile  on  their  faces,  though 
their  eyes  were  very  soft  and  shiny  with  sym- 
pathy for  heartbroken  master. 

"One  by  one  the  dear  old  things  they  loved — 
the  pictures,  the  books,  the  time-blackened  ma- 
hogany furniture — ^were  carted  away  in  wagons. 


"BILLY''  OF  BATTERY  B  79 

Then  it  came  our  turn  in  the  stables,  and  we  were 
walked  out  and  handled  and  punched  by  veteri- 
naries.  We  were  trotted  around  the  yard.  Our 
pedigrees  were  read,  and  all  kinds  of  lies  told 
about  us  before  the  auctioneer  knocked  us  down 
to  the  highest  bidder.  After  it  was  all  over,  and 
I  was  tied  up  to  a  horse-dealer's  wagon  out  in 
the  road,  very  blue  and  brokenhearted  over  our 
misfortunes,  I  felt  a  pair  of  soft  arms  steal 
around  my  neck,  and  my  little  girl's  cheek  nest- 
ling close  to  me.  There  was  no  one  near  us,  and 
she  had  come  to  say  good-bye.  When  I  turned 
and  rubbed  my  nose  on  her  shoulder  she  was 
crying  softly. 

"  ^Good-bye,  you  dear,  old  Billy,'  she  whis- 
pered. ^Good-bye!  Always  be  your  good  and 
kind  and  gentle  and  true  self.' 

"I  know  I'll  never  meet  anybody.  Bob,  who 
will  love  me  as  she  did,  and  now  do  you  wonder 
that  I  keep  thinking  of  that  old  blue-grass  farm 
way  back  in  Kentucky?" 

Bob  blinked  sympathetically,  and  rubbed  his 
nose  up  and  down  Billy's  neck  to  cheer  him. 

"At  the  same  time,  colt,"  said  he,  soberly, 
"don't  you  think  that  little  girl  would  be  hap- 


80      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

pier  if  she  knew  you  were  following  her  ad- 
vice?" 

It  was  very  late  in  the  stables  now;  most  of 
the  battery  horses  were  down  asleep  in  their  beds 
of  hay.  When  the  sad,  resonant  notes  of  "taps" 
came  floating  in  on  the  night  air,  poor,  tired 
Billy  did  not  hear  them,  for  he  was  fast  asleep, 
too,  and  dreaming  of  long  vistas  of  blue-grass 
meadow,  and  the  gentle  voice  and  hand  that 
used  to  guide  and  cheer  him  on  his  way, 

II 

The  drifting  snow,  dry  and  biting  as  salt,  was 
filling  all  the  hollows  and  crannies  around  a 
desolate  camp  at  the  Rosebud  Agency,  on  the 
flat,  brown  plateau  of  South  Dakota,  one  cheer- 
less December  afternoon  in  1890.  Inside  the 
dreary  Sibley  tents  the  men  were  huddled  to- 
gether under  blankets,  trying  to  thaw  out,  and 
discussing  the  probable  outcome  of  the  uprising 
of  the  Sioux  ghost-dancers,  whose  threatening 
actions  had  brought  all  the  available  horse  and 
foot  of  our  army  to  the  cold,  barren  region 
where  they  lived. 

A  man  had  risen  among  them  who  called  him- 
self "the  Messiah."    He  had  talked  to  them  in 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  81 

a  frenzied  and  impassioned  way  in  a  strain  that 
is  ever  welcome  in  the  young  Indian's  ears — of 
war  and  the  glory  of  revenge;  of  the  fancied 
and  real  wrongs  they  had  suffered  at  the  white 
man's  hands ;  of  the  cheating  and  stealing  of  the 
White  Father's  agents.  Then  straightway  they 
had  streaked  their  faces  with  hideous  dashes  of 
yellow,  vermilion,  and  blue,  and  stalked  into 
the  agency  full  of  an  unholy  desire  for  slaughter, 
which  had  found  expression  in  the  saying  of  a 
big  chief  who  proclaimed  "he  could  not  die 
happy  until  he  had  eaten  a  white  man's  heart." 

The  word  of  the  government  had  gone  forth, 
for  fifteen  thousand  rabid  Indians  cannot  be 
dealt  with  tenderly,  and  the  telegraph  wires 
were  kept  smoking  with  hurrying  messages  to 
troops  who  were  coming  helter-skelter  from 
north,  south,  east,  and  west.  From  each  side  of 
the  square  two  hundred  miles  of  desert,  large 
bodies  of  troops  were  drawing  in  on  the  reserva- 
tion, while  back  and  forth  over  their  bleak  land 
a  restless  wave  of  Indians  swept,  seeking  to 
avoid  the  inevitable  contingency  of  surrender  or 
annihilation. 

The  government  was  trying  very  hard  to 
bring  the  Sioux  to  reason  with  a  great  show  of 


82      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

force,  and  the  older  and  wiser  heads  among  the 
Indians  were  seconding  their  efforts  to  prevent 
a  fruitless  shedding  of  blood.  But  these  efforts 
had  been  made  too  late,  for  the  fever  of  war  was 
in  the  hot  blood  of  the  young  Sioux  braves.  Al- 
ready there  had  been  killing  done,  and  new- 
made  graves  studded  the  fast-whitening  winter 
prairie.  Sitting  Bull  had  been  shot  while  re- 
sisting arrest,  and  his  followers  were  mad  with 
desire  for  revenge,  while  the  government  had 
decreed  a  general  disarming  of  the  Sioux. 

Down  at  the  end  of  the  agency  camp  was  a 
small  detachment  from  Battery  B — two  guns 
and  fifteen  men,  and  picketed  near  by  in  the  chill 
of  the  storm,  shivering  under  their  canvas 
covers,  were  Billy  and  Bob,  with  about  a  dozen 
of  the  battery  bays. 

"Wot's  ther  use  of  our  bloomin'  guns  out  'ere, 
I'd  like  ter  know?"  said  Driver  Burke  to  his 
comrades  in  the  snow-bound  tent.  "Chasin'  In- 
jians  with  cannon  is  the  wust  tomfoolishness  I 
ever  'eard  of."  But  we  must  judge  Driver 
Burke  leniently,  for  when  a  soldier  is  quartered 
out  on  a  frozen  prairie  in  what  seems  to  him  a 
purposeless  way,  all  things  look  foolish. 

Then  up  piped  a  pallid  recruit  from  under  a 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  83 

pile  of  blankets.  "Now  that  they  got  th'  hull 
outfit  of  'em  surrounded,  they  ought  ter  let  us 
go  'ome  an'  get  warm — sure."  This  brought  a 
smile  to  the  seared,  weather-beaten  face  of  the 
old  sergeant  in  charge,  who  was  smoking  his 
pipe,  and  refusing  to  allow  himself  to  be  other- 
wise than  cheerful  and  contented. 

"If  you  fellers  would  stop  studyin'  the  con- 
duk  of  the  campaign  an'  the  akshuns  of  the  com- 
manding officer,  you'd  be  better  off,"  interrupted 
the  sergeant.  "You  ain't  gettin'  thirteen  dollars 
a  month  for  ter  advise  the  major-gen'ral.  All 
you  got  ter  do  is  ter  obey  orders  and'  keep  your 
faces  closed,  an'  I  think  if  you  go  out  an'  hustle 
up  a  pile  of  wood  for  ter-night,  you'd  feel  bet- 
ter." 

While  that  conversation  was  going  on  inside 
of  Battery  B's  tent,  down  at  headquarters  the 
major-general  was  listening  to  the  broken,  im- 
petuous story  of  a  pale,  half-frozen  orderly  with 
a  bloody  bandage  tied  around  his  head. 

The  message  was  short  and  very  pressing. 
When  the  soldier  finished  he  was  dismissed,  and 
the  grave,  careworn  general  turned  and  asked 
his  aid  if  there  were  any  mounted  troops  in 
camp. 


84  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

"No,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  ^^The  cavalry  is 
all  out,  but  there  is  that  battery  detachment." 

The  general  thought  of  the  fifteen  long  miles 
between  the  camp  and  place  where  succor  was 
needed  so  badly,  of  the  trail  heavy  with  snow, 
and  he  sighed  for  the  absent  cavalry.  Then  he 
thought  of  the  quiet,  grim  lieutenant  of  B  Bat- 
tery, who  had  been  chafing  at  the  useless  role 
he  had  been  forced  to  play  in  the  campaign,  and 
had  repeatedly  solicited  permission  to  show 
what  his  little  Hotchkiss  guns  could  do  in  sett- 
ling matters  with  the  Sioux,  and  he  remembered 
the  slashing  big  bay  horses  that  the  battery  was 
so  proud  of. 

"Send  for  Lieutenant  Dacre,  captain,"  was 
his  order  to  the  silent  aide. 

When  the  battery  commander  received  the 
message  he  ran  hot-footed  to  headquarters,  in 
glad  anticipation  of  work  to  do,  and  his  first 
look  at  the  stern,  anxious  face  of  his  chief  told 
him  what  it  was. 

^'The  — th  are  having  a  row  with  Big  Foot's 
band  down  on  Wounded  Knee  Creek.  They 
need  help  badly,  and  I  have  nothing  here  that 
could  reach  them  soon  enough.    Do  you  think 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  85 

you  can  get  your  guns  there  in  time  to  be  of  any 
use?    It's  fifteen  miles  over  the  ridge  west." 

^'I  should  like  to  try,  general." 

"Very  good.  Go  ahead.  We  will  be  several 
hours  behind  with  the  infantry." 

There  was  a  scramble  around  the  battery  tent 
a  few  minutes  later,  and  a  rush  of  men  laden 
with  harness  and  accoutrements  over  to  the 
horses  at  the  picket-line.  Never  before  did  the 
battery  drivers  hitch  so  quickly,  and  the  can- 
noneers ran  the  guns  and  limbers  out  of  the  can- 
vas sheds  with  an  agility  that  on-lookers  had 
never  seen  equalled.  No  bugles  were  blown,  no 
orders  were  given ;  there  was  no  need  to  tell  any- 
body to  make  haste,  for  the  orderly  with  the 
bloody  bandage  around  his  head  had  staggered 
down  the  camp  street  on  his  way  to  the  hospital 
with  a  horror-stricken  face,  telling  every  one 
that  the  Custer  massacre  was  being  repeated 
down  at  Wounded  Knee,  and  that  the  "Fighting 
— ^^th"  were  making  another  hopeless  struggle 
against  their  old,  pitiless  enemies. 

Out  of  sight  of  the  bewildered  infantry  sol- 
diers emerging  from  their  tents  the  battery 
whirled,  soon  lost  to  view  in  the  swirling  snow. 
There  was  no  time  for  a  God-speed  you  or  a 


86      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

farewell  cheer.  Cannoneers  and  drivers  stared 
grimly  ahead,  and  only  one  thought  was  in  their 
heads — to  get  there  in  time,  which  depended  al- 
together on  the  horses. 

.  Did  those  horses  hear  what  the  general  had 
told  the  battery  commander,  or  had  they  seen 
the  wounded  orderly  reeling  through  the  camp 
to  the  hospital?  That  is  not  given  us  to  know. 
At  any  rate,  Billy  and  Bob  knew  that  their  bat- 
tery was  on  business  of  a  most  urgent  nature,  or 
they  would  never  be  flying  at  racing  speed  over 
the  cold,  snowy  plain  towards  the  distant  hills 
and  the  sinking  sun.  They  could  almost  meas- 
ure the  importance  of  their  task  by  the  way  the 
drivers  on  the  swings  and  leads  laid  the  quirt 
over  their  teams ;  but  the  wheelers  on  No.  1  gun 
did  not  need  any  urging. 

"Run  low  and  steady,  Billy;  quit  jerking 
your  collar.  We  have  a  long,  hard  run  to  make, 
and  who  knows  what  might  happen  if  we  don't 
made  it?  They  need  us  badly  somewhere — a 
regiment  must  be  getting  slaughtered." 

"Were  you  ever  in  action.  Bob?  How  does 
it  feel?"  asked  Billy,  as  they  bowled  along. 

"Oh,  you  feel  as  jolly  as  can  be.  It's  all  kinds 
of  fun.    Everybody  goes  clean  crazy,  except  us. 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  87 

Some  of  'em  laugh,  and  some  of  'em  cry;  some 
of  'em,  in  fact,  most  of  'em,  first  time,  get  very 
sick.  Men  are  so  much  more  foolish  than  we 
are  about  these  things.  Look  outl  Slide,  Billy, 
slide!" 

Just  then  they  came  to  some  ice  holes.  The 
off  leader  slipped  and  fell,  bringing  down  his 
mate ;  on  top  of  the  leads  tumbled,  crashing,  the 
swing  team,  while  Billy  and  Bob  just  managed 
to  keep  out  of  the  awful  mess  by  sitting  down 
on  their  rumps  and  sliding  on  their  tails.  They 
dragged  out  of  the  squirming  wreck  the  driver 
of  the  swings  unconscious  and  bleeding,  and 
laid  them  tenderly  down  on  the  snow  while  the 
horses  were  looked  to. 

^^Two  of  'em's  bruk  ther  legs,  lieutenant,"  sang 
out  the  sergeant,  "an'  this  'ere  swing  horse  is 
stove  up  inside." 

"Take  three  horses  off  No.  2,  and  put  them  in 
their  places.  Stay  behind  with  2,  sergeant,  take 
those  wounded  men,  and  follow  us  as  fast  as  you 
can,"  said  the  lieutenant. 

So  in  a  few  seconds  No.  1  was  rolling  ahead 
again,  leaving  behind  its  crippled  mate  and  two 
limp,  unconscious  forms  stretched  out  on  its 
limber.    On  the  foaming  horses  sped. 


88  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

"My  soul  I  What  a  narrow  shave  that  was  for 
us,  Bob!" 

"Never  you  mind  thinking  about  narrow 
escapes,"  answered  Bob;  "you  just  keep  your 
eyes  on  the  ground,  and  jump  those  ice  holes. 
Don't  forget  to  sit  down  and  slide  if  anybody 
goes  down  in  front.  There  is  one  thing  sure, 
we  have  to  get  this  gun  somewhere  in  very  short 
order,  or  a  regiment  will  be  slaughtered ;  it  must 
be  a  regiment,  for  they  wouldn't  move  us  like 
this  for  anything  less." 

Of  a  truth,  the  words  of  old  Bob  were  timely 
and  to  the  point.  Over  the  snow-covered  prairie 
frozen  hummocks  were  scattered  here  and  there, 
and  around  these  wicked  little  lumps  were  rings 
of  steely,  black  ice — ice  that  sometimes  broke 
and  lacerated  ankle-joints  fearfully,  while  some- 
times the  rough-shod  hoofs  slipped  over  like 
skates. 

They  were  half-way  up  the  gentle  grade  that 
led  to  the  gap  in  the  ridge  to  the  west,  but  they 
never  shortened  their  long,  free  stride.  Men 
and  horses  settled  down  to  the  work  with  that 
grim  determination  that  wins  out  many  a  for- 
lorn hope.  Not  a  sound,  not  a  message  from  the 
desperate  fight  beyond,  had  reached  them  yet 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  99 

The  lieutenant  was  riding  ahead  of  the  careen- 
ing gun,  picking  out  the  trail.  All  at  once  there 
loomed  up  against  the  sky-line  of  the  ridge  ahead 
a  big  six-mule  ambulance,  which  came  tearing 
down  the  grade  to  them.  It  was  full  of  shriek- 
ing, wounded  men.  The  lieutenant  pulled  back 
to  speak  to  them.  There  were  men  with  the 
madness  of  the  fight  on  them  yet,  cursing  the 
doctors  who  had  taken  them  away;  sad  dying 
men  with  blue  faces,  and  pallid,  sunny-haired 
boys  with  tears  running  down  their  cheeks — all 
of  them  crazy,  irrational,  incoherent. 

"Push  on!  Push  on,  or  there  will  be  nobody 
left  over  there,"  was  all  the  ambulance  driver 
could  say  when  questioned.  And  that  gun  did 
push  on  as  hard  as  strength  of  a  man  and  beast 
could  push. 

Up  at  the  entrance  of  the  gap  there  was  some- 
thing waiting  for  Battery  B — something  that 
men  and  horses  did  not  expect.  It  was  an  am- 
bush that  the  crafty  enemy  had  planned  to  cut 
off  the  longed-for  relief.  With  wily  cunning 
they  had  let  the  ambulance  pass  them  unmo- 
lested. Invisible  things  were  hiding  behind 
crag  and  bowlder — things  with  dark,  unhuman 
faces,  scanning  with  their  gleaming  eyes  every 


90  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

detail  of  the  little  gun  detachment  which  was 
climbing  confidently  up  to  the  steep,  narrow  gap 
beneath  them,  waiting  patiently  till  even  the 
element  of  skill  was  not  needed  to  make  murder 
complete.  Then  the  signal  was  given,  the  volley 
was  fired,  and  men  and  horses  fell.  Both  the 
lead  and  swing  teams  and  the  lieutenant's  horse 
were  shot  dead  in  their  tracks.  Billy  saw  old 
Bob  quiver,  sink,  and  straighten  himself  with 
an  effort,  he  also  felt  his  fore-leg  give  way  as  a 
burning  pain  shot  across  his  ankle.  All  this 
time  from  the  rocks  above  the  Winchesters  of 
the  Indians  were  spitting  white  puffs  of  smoke 
downward,  and  bullets  were  singing  below  and 
above,  in  front  and  rear.  The  men  were  all 
killed  at  the  first  fire,  except  the  lieutenant  and 
two  drivers,  and  they  were  busy  hacking  away 
with  their  sabres  at  the  traces  of  the  dead  leaders 
and  swings.  In  a  moment  the  gun  was  freed  of 
its  dead  horses,  and  Billy  and  Bob  found  them- 
selves pulling  it  up  through  the  gap  all  alone 
— one  horse  on  three  legs,  for  the  fourth  had 
been  disabled  by  a  shot,  and  the  other  with  a 
bullet  in  his  lungs.  Still,  they  struggled  and 
strained  every  aching  fibre,  and  the  gun  went 
up  the  gap. 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  91 

What  a  great,  noble  soul  can  do  in  the  hour 
of  agony  and  need — till  nature  calls  a  halt — is 
a  marvel  to  the  world. 

Just  as  they  pulled  out  of  range  of  the  ambush 
Bob  fell  dying  in  the  snow,  and  as  he  looked  up 
at  Billy  with  the  mournful  eyes  of  one  who  dies 
while  his  task  is  yet  undone,  I  think  he  must 
have  said:  "You  do  it  for  me,  Billy  I" 

They  cut  Bob  loose,  and  the  lieutenant  and 
the  two  men  put  their  shoulders  to  the  limber 
and  started  the  piece  uphill  once  more.  Four 
hundred  yards  up  the  terrible  grade  Billy  pulled 
that  gun  for  them,  at  every  step  digging  his 
wounded  off  front  leg  into  the  sharp  shale  and 
jagged  ice  of  the  mountain  trail;  but  his  agony 
and  pain  were  nearly  over.  At  the  brow  of  the 
divide  they  looked  down  into  the  valley  where 
the  fight  was  going  on. 

Below  them  a  thin  blue  skirmish  -  line 
stretched  out  in  a  crescent,  was  replying  feebly 
to  the  rapid  and  destructive  fire  of  the  Indians, 
sheltered  in  their  village  and  in  the  command- 
ing ground  on  the  other  side.  There  were  many 
silent  gaps  in  the  blue  skirmish-line,  and  the 
ground  between  it  and  the  Indians  was  scattered 


92      BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

with  rigid  blue-clad  forms  and  the  stiff,  tawny 
figures  of  dead  Sioux. 

If  the  authors  of  the  "Drill  Regulations  for 
Light  Artillery"  could  have  seen  that  gun, 
drawn  by  a  horse  on  three  legs,  and  manned  by 
an  officer  and  two  privates,  go  "into  battery" 
on  the  brow  of  that  hill,  they  would  have  mar- 
velled greatly. 

The  limber  did  not  come  around  on  a  gallop, 
by  a  left  traverse — as  the  book  says  it  should — 
but  the  gun  was  in  position  just  as  quickly  as  if 
it  had ;  for  two  men  had  drawn  the  pin  and  un- 
coupled the  tailpiece  from  the  limber  before 
they  halted.  They  ran  the  gun  out  "by  hand" 
to  the  brink,  while  the  lieutenant — self-insti- 
tuted powder-monkey — dug  deep  into  the  limber 
chest  and  filled  his  arms  full  of  long,  slim  shrap- 
nel shells. 

Billy,  tottering  on  three  legs  behind  them, 
saw  everything — the  breech  opened,  the  cart- 
ridge pushed  home,  and  the  breech  closed  and 
locked.  He  saw  the  lieutenant  down  on  his 
knees  adjusting  the  sights,  and  pointing  the  piece 
which  exact  nicety  at  a  swarm  of  Sioux  behind 
the  tepees  in  the  village. 

Driver  Burke  stood  with  his  knees  bent  and 


"BILLY"  OF  BATTERY  B  93 

the  lanyard  taut  in  his  hand,  impatient  for  the 
word.  In  a  low,  firm  tone  it  came,  "Fire!"  A 
long  tongue  of  flame  shot  forth,  then  a  blast  of 
white,  cloudy  smoke,  and,  after  a  distinct  pause, 
the  sharp  detonation  rang  out  and  deafened 
them.  Straining  forward,  they  saw  the  shell 
burst  over  the  village,  and  tepees,  blankets, 
ponies,  and  Indians  seemed  to  be  struck  by  a 
tornado.  Then  they  sent  shell  after  shell  shriek- 
ing over  the  valley  into  the  village  and  the  In- 
dian position.  The  hissing  wail  of  the  twisting 
shrapnel  as  they  flew  through  the  air  had  a  most 
terrifying  effect  on  the  Sioux.  They  thought 
they  heard  the  voices  of  the  dead  they  had  killed 
and  tortured  crying  for  vengeance. 

As  if  hurried  on  by  the  ghosts  of  the  departed, 
swiftly  and  silently  every  Indian  fled,  and  noth- 
ing was  left  below  to  fire  at  but  a  mass  of  whirl- 
ing wreckage. 

Cheer  on  cheer  came  ringing  up  from  the 
rescued  regiment  below,  but  the  lieutenant  and 
the  two  exhausted  men  lying  flat  on  the  ground 
by  the  side  of  the  reeking  gun  did  not  hear 
them.  Their  eyes  were  fastened  on  a  gaunt, 
haggard  horse  awaying  to  and  fro  on  three  legs, 
his  soft,  pleading  eyes  swimming  with  pain. 


94      BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

A  look  flashed  on  the  lieutenant's  face  that 
made  his  hard  features  tender  and  womanly. 
Then  it  was  that  Driver  Burke,  the  worst  black- 
guard in  the  battery,  spoke  his  mind. 

"That's  a  horse  as  is  a  horse,  an'  'e  ought  ter 
'ave  a  medal  as  big  as  ther  moon." 

The  lieutenant  looked  at  Driver  Burke,  and 
a  bond  of  sympathy  was  established  between 
them  right  there  and  then.  The  other  man  was 
dumb  as  an  oyster,  but  he  never  took  his  staring, 
wet  eyes  off  Billy. 

"Ther'  ain't  no  such  thing  as  givin'  a  horse  a 
wooden  leg,"  said  Burke,  meditatively;  "an'  the 
kindest  thing  we  can  do  is  ter  do  our  duty." 
And  they  did. 

According  to  Burke,  Billy's  shiny,  brown  eyes 
thanked  him  as  he  fired. 

"If  there  is  any  horse's  heaven,"  says  Burke, 
"where  they  does  nothin'  but  play  on  ther  blue- 
grass  meadows  among  the  daisies  all  day  long — 
you'll  find  Billy  there." 

They  all  received  medals  of  honor,  every 
member  of  that  gun  detachment;  but  among 
themselves  they  often  say  that,  "he  who  most 
deserved  a  medal  never  received  one" — ^mean- 
ing, of  course,  Billy  of  Battery  B. 


FLORIDE'S  PATIENT 

!^  True  Story  of  the  Civil  War 

A  GREAT  battle  was  fought  near  Floride's 
^^^^  home  in  the  South.  All  day  long  she 
listened  to  the  distant  roar  of  the  cannon.  She 
had  not  a  very  clear  idea  of  what  the  quarrel 
was  all  about,  but  she  was  an  ardent  little  rebel, 
nevertheless. 

She  hated  the  Yankees  bitterly  when  she  heard 
that  they  had  gained  the  victory,  and  left  hun- 
dreds of  Southern  soldiers  wounded  and  dead 
on  the  field,  and  she  grieved  over  the  thought 
of  their  suffering  until  it  seemed  as  if  she  must 
do  something  to  help  them.  The  dear,  old 
church  where  she  used  to  go  to  Sunday-school 
had  been  turned  into  a  hospital.  Floride  would 
often  wander  near  it,  thinking  of  all  the  pain 
and  misery  within,  until  one  day  she  peeped 
through  the  open  door.  Inside  she  saw  rows 
of    narrow    cots,    with    haggard-looking    men 

95 


96      BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

Stretched  upon  them.  Other  men,  evidently 
surgeons  and  nurses,  were  hurrying  back  and 
forth  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  Floride  noisy  and 
heartless.  Just  opposite  the  door  lay  a  boy,  with 
dark,  damp  hair,  and  such  a  sad,  tired  face  that 
Floride  could  not  keep  back  tears  of  pity. 

Frank  Laine  had  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  dreadful  sight  of  so  much  suffering,  and  his 
mind  had  wandered  home  again.  Oh,  if  his 
mother  were  only  here  to  put  her  cool  hand  on 
his  burning  head  for  one  minute,  or  his  little 
sister,  just  to  say  she  was  sorry  for  him!  But 
there  was  no  one  to  pity  him  now,  and  they 
would  never  know  how  he  longed  for  them. 

He  opened  his  eyes  wearily,  and  saw  stand- 
ing in  a  gleam  of  sunshine  that  fell  across  the 
doorway  a  little  white-robed  figure  with  shining 
hair,  and  he  wondered  vaguely  if  it  was  an  angel 
as  it  came  slowly  towards  him. 

"Do  you  want  some?"  Floride  whispered ;  and 
without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  jflung  her 
bunch  of  wild  flowers  on  the  cot  and  ran  away. 

Then  Frank  knew  it  was  no  angel,  but  a 
tender  hearted  little  girl  like  his  own  sister 
Margaret,  and  an  overwhelming  rush  of  home- 
sickness made  him  burst  into  tears.     Poor  fel- 


.     FLORIDE'S  PATIENT  97 

low!  he  was  no  hero  now,  though  he  had  fancied 
himself  one  not  long  ago  when  he  ran  away 
from  home  to  join  the  Northern  army.  He  had 
meant  to  write  to  his  mother  after  the  first  battle, 
and  tell  of  his  wonderful  deeds  of  bravery  and 
the  praise  he  had  gained.  But  there  was  nothing 
of  the  kind  to  tell.  Heroes  are  not  left  lying  on 
the  roadside  for  hours,  dizzy  with  pain,  while 
the  army  sweeps  by  and  wins  the  victory  with- 
out their  help.  He  would  never  write  home 
now.  Everything  had  turned  out  as  his  father 
foretold,  and  he  could  never,  never  expect  to 
earn  forgiveness. 

He  hoped  Floride  would  come  again.  She 
was  like  a  little  bit  of  home  unexpectedly  find- 
ing its  way  into  the  dreary  place.  The  night 
did  not  seem  so  long  and  tedious  when  he  was 
thinking  about  her,  wondering  whether  she  was 
a  rebel,  and  where  she  lived,  and  whether  she 
would  come  to-morrow.  He  was  so  anxious  to 
see  her  again  that  he  grew  restless  and  feverish 
as  the  time  wore  on,  but  the  nurses  were  too  busy 
to  notice  him.  There  were  many  others  of  more 
importance  in  their  eyes  than  the  drummer-boy, 
who  was  so  dangerously  wounded  that  he  prob- 
ably never  would  get  well. 


98  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

To  his  delight  the  golden  head  peeped  in 
about  nine  o'clock,  and  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation Floride  walked  over  to  the  cot. 

^^See,  I've  brought  you  something,"  she  whis- 
pered, her  cheeks  pink  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment; and  she  produced  from  under  her  apron 
a  china  mug  full  of  milk.  Such  a  thing  was  un- 
known in  the  hospital,  and  Frank  was  always 
thirsty. 

^'That's  good!"  he  cried,  draining  it  eagerly. 
^^That's  like  home.  It  makes  me  think  of  Dap- 
ple.   Dapple  was  my  cow,  you  know." 

"Oh,  have  you  got  a  cow?"  asked  Floride. 

"I  used  to  have.  She  was  fine,  I  tell  you. 
Whenever  I  came  in  sight  she'd  run  up  to  me 
and  lay  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  and —  Oh, 
well,"  he  broke  off,  hastily,  as  he  felt  a  lump 
rising  in  his  throat,  "there's  no  use  talking  about 
it.    I'll  never  see  her  again." 

"Did  the  Yankees  steal  her?"  demanded 
Floride.     "The  wicked,  cruel,  horrid  things!" 

"See  here,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that!"  ex- 
claimed Frank.    "I'm  a  Yankee  myself." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  nice!"  cried  Flo- 
ride. "I  thought  you  were  a  Confederate,  I'm 
sorry  I  brought  you  the  milk.    I  hate  you !    You 


FLORIDE'S  PATIENT  99 

killed  my  Uncle  Paul.  Oh,  you  bad,  bad  man!" 
And  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot  she  ran  away. 

In  vain  Frank  called  her  back.  He  had  no 
quarrel  with  her,  little  rebel  though  she  was, 
and  he  felt  lonelier  than  ever  when  she  was  gone. 

Poor  Floride  went  home  and  had  a  good  cry. 
Down  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  had  always 
thought  of  Yankees  as  black  men  who  ate  little 
children.  It  was  a  great  disappointment  to  find 
out  her  mistake,  and,  besides,  she  was  really 
very  sorry  for  the  wounded  soldier;  but  she 
resolved  never  to  go  to  the  hospital  again,  or 
take  the  "Yank"  things  to  eat.  If  she  could  only 
have  had  a  long  talk  with  her  mother  about  him! 
But  Mrs.  Elmer  was  many  miles  away,  and 
somehow  Floride  could  not  tell  her  secrets  to 
Aunt  Carrie.  Nothing  would  make  her  believe 
that  any  Yankee  was  nice,  and  she  would  be 
glad  Frank  was  wounded. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  in  the  after- 
noon Floride  went  off  to  Sunday-school  with  her 
heart  full  of  "hatred,  malice,  and  all  uncharita- 
bleness."  The  Yankees  had  taken  away  their 
church,  and  they  had  to  meet  in  Miss  Nelson's 
house.  That  was  another  reason  for  hating 
them.    Besides,  hadn't  the  "Yanks"  killed  dear 


100  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

Uncle  Paul,  whom  Miss  Nelson  had  promised 
to  marry? 

The  text  that  day  was  "Love  your  enemies." 
It  made  Floride  feel  uncomfortable,  for  just  as 
she  said  it,  it  struck  her  that  the  Yankees  were 
her  enemies.  Miss  Nelson  did  not  say  one  word 
about  the  Northern  soldiers,  but  she  reminded 
the  girls  of  what  bitter  foes  our  dear  Lord  had, 
and  how  He  prayed,  "Father,  forgive  them,  for 
they  know  not  what  they  do,"  and  she  told  them 
that  each  and  all  must  try  to  follow  His  example, 
and  do  good  to  those  that  hated  them.  Suddenly 
she  stopped,  and  bursting  into  tears,  said :  "Go 
home,  children,  go  home." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  what  Miss  Nelson  says,  I 
hate  the  Yankees!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  older 
girls,  as  they  went  slowly  out;  and  the  others 
cried  out,  "Oh,  of  course.  Miss  Nelson  couldn't 
mean  to  love  Yankees !" 

But  Floride  was  silent.  She  knew  very  well 
that  Miss  Nelson  had  meant  the  Northern  sol- 
diers, and  she  resolved  to  forgive  the  wounded 
drummer-boy,  and  see  what  she  could  do  to 
make  him  happier. 

Frank  had  watched  for  her  all  day,  but  when 
evening  came  he  gave  up  and  tried  not  to  be 


FLORIDE'S  PATIENT  101 

disappointed,  but  it  was  very  hard  to  be  brave. 
He  had  no  supper.  How  could  he  eat  the  coarse, 
hastily  cooked  hospital  food?  He  was  not 
hungry,  but  he  was  terribly  thirsty.  His  head 
ached,  too.  The  pain  seemed  to  vanish  when 
a  light  footstep  that  certainly  was  not  that  of 
one  of  the  surgeons  fell  on  his  ear,  and  Floride 
came  softly  in,  looking  a  little  frightened. 

"Here,"  she  whispered,  "I  brought  you  some 
more  milk  and  some  jelly,  and  I'm  sorry  I  called 
you  a  Yankee.    Good-bye!" 

''Oh,  stop,  little  girl,  stop !"  said  the  "Yankee," 
eagerly.  "You  needn't  be  sorry.  I  don't  mind ; 
and  thank  you  for  the  things.  Won't  you  stay 
and  talk?    I'm  so —  It's  kind  of  lonely  here." 

"I  should  think  it  would  be,"  said  Floride, 
sympathetically;  "but  I  can't  stay  now.  It's  al- 
most dark.  I'll  come  again  to-morrow,  right 
after  breakfast,"  and  with  a  happy  nod  she  flew 
away. 

The  next  day,  and  every  day  after  for  more 
than  a  week,  she  visited  her  patient  faithfully. 
She  always  brought  something  nice  for  him  to 
eat  or  drink,  and  Frank  never  dreamed  that  she 
was  denying  herself  to  give  it  to  him.    Her  visits 


102  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

"were  the'oiie  bright  spot  in  days  that  were  cloudy 
with  pain. 

The  other  patients  watched  for  her,  too,  and 
were  better  for  the  sight  of  her  sunny  face ;  while 
the  doctors,  when  they  thought  of  her  at  all,  con- 
cluded that  she  did  the  wounded  boy  good,  and 
they  made  no  objection  to  her  presence.  As  for 
Frank,  he  was  contented  to  lie  still,  with  closed 
eyes,  while  she  chattered  to  him,  or  murmured 
softly  the  hymns  she  knew,  if  he  was  in  great 
pain.  "There  is  a  green  hill  far  away,"  and 
"Once  in  royal  David's  city,"  were  his  favorites. 

Sometimes,  when  he  felt  better  than  usual,  he 
would  tell  her  about  the  dear  Connecticut  farm, 
and  just  how  his  mother  looked,  and  how  stern 
his  father  sometimes  was,  and  yet  how  kind. 

Floride  would  beg  him  to  write  to  them  and 
say  he  was  sorry  for  his  disobedience,  and  tell 
them  he  was  wounded,  but  Frank  always  shut 
his  lips  in  a  decided  way  and  shook  his  head  at 
this.  He  was  very  proud,  poor  boy!  One  day 
he  asked  Floride  to  bring  him  a  sheet  of  paper 
and  an  envelope. 

"Are  you  going  to  write  to  your  mother?" 
asked  Floride,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  but  I  am  not  going  to  send  it  now," 


FLORIDE'S  PATIENT  103 

Frank  answered.  "I  want  you  to  take  care  of 
it  for  me,  and  afterwards — ^when  I — die — I 
want  you  to  send  it" 

That  Frank  was  going  to  die  was  a  new  idea 
to  Floride.  She  gazed  at  him  wistfully  while 
the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  and  could  not 
speak ;  but  when  he  smiled  back  at  her  bravely, 
and  said,  "Oh,  don't  cry!  It  doesn't  matter 
much,"  with  a  great  sob,  she  rushed  out  into  the 
.woods,  and  throwing  herself  down  on  the  grass, 
cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

It  was  a  very  short  letter  that  the  poor  boy 
wrote,  for  his  strength  was  failing  fast.  He  told 
how  good  the  little  rebel  had  been  to  him,  and 
how  she  had  promised  to  send  the' letter  after  he 
was  dead,  so  that  they  might  know  he  longed  for 
their  forgiveness,  and  missed  them  every  minute 
night  and  day.  Then  he  gave  it  to  Floride,  and 
they  never  spoke  of  the  subject  again,  but  when- 
ever the  little  girl  entered  the  hospital  after  that 
she  trembled  for  fear  they  would  tell  her  that 
Frank  was  dead. 

Miss  Elmer  had  so  much  to  do,  and  so  many 
things  to  occupy  her  mind  in  those  dark  days  of 
the  war,  that  she  did  not  think  a  great  deal  about 
the  comings  and  goings  of  her  little  niece.    Not 


104  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

long  after  this,  however,  she  said  to  Miss  Nel- 
son: ^^I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  Floride. 
She  is  the  strangest  child — " 

"Why,  what  has  she  been  doing  now?"  asked 
Miss  Nelson. 

"Oh,  nothing;  but  she  has  such  queer  ideas. 
She  has  taken  a  fancy  to  eat  all  her  dainties  in 
private.  She  never  will  drink  her  milk  at  table 
now,  and  she  is  always  begging  for  jelly,  or 
berries,  or  something  else  to  eat.  Such  an  ap- 
petite cannot  be  healthy." 

"Well,  let  her  enjoy  herself  if  she  can,"  said 
Miss  Nelson.  "I  suppose  she  likes  to  go  off  to 
the  woods  and  play  tea-party." 

"Poor  child,  she  little  realizes  what  terrible 
suffering  is  at  our  door!" 

But  Miss  Elmer  found  out  that  day  how  mucK 
of  the  suffering  Floride  did  realize,  when  one 
of  the  Northern  surgeons  brought  the  little  girl 
home  in  his  arms  white  and  faint.  A  man  had 
had  his  leg  cut  off  in  the  hospital,  he  explained, 
and  no  one  had  known  that  Floride  was  there 
until  they  heard  a  low  groan,  and  she  fell  faint- 
ing to  the  floor.  They  had  revived  her,  and  the 
surgeon  had  undertaken  to  bring  her  home  and 
explain  matters. 


FLORIDE'S  PATIENT  105 

Floride  only  half  understood  what  he  was  say- 
ing. She  knew  her  aunt  was  puzzled  and  angry, 
but  the  room  seemed  to  be  spinning  round,  and 
she  felt  as  if  she  did  not  care  a  great  deal 
what  happened  when  she  heard  the  surgeon  say: 
"It's  doubtful  if  he  pulls  through." 

"Oh,  don't  let  him  die!"  she  cried,  springing 
up  with  sudden  strength.  "Oh,  Aunt  Carrie, 
poor  Frank  mustn't  die!  Oh,  please,  dear  God, 
don't  let  him  die!" 

But  all  Aunt  Carrie  answered  was :  "Floride, 
I  am  surprised!"  Then  she  turned  to  the  sur- 
geon with  lofty  courtesy  and  said :  "Thank  you 
for  your  kindness.  Floride  shall  not  trouble 
you  again." 

"You  must  not  keep  her  away,"  he  answered, 
pleasantly.  "She  does  young  Laine  a  world 
of  good.  If  anything  will  help  him  out,  it  is 
the  way  she  takes  care  of  him.  Good-bye,  little 
nurse,"  he  added,  and  was  off. 

In  vain  Floride  begged  and  pleaded  to  be 
allowed  to  see  Frank  once  more,  in  vain  she  ex- 
plained that  she  was  only  trying  to  love  her  ene- 
mies, in  vain  she  declared  that  Frank  would  die 
if  she  did  not  go.    The  only  thing  Miss  Elmer 


106  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

would  say  on  the  subject  was  to  repeat,  coldly: 
"Floride,  I  am  surprised!" 

Floride  was  very  lonely  and  unhappy  after 
that.  She  wondered  sadly  whether  Frank  would 
think  she  had  forgotten  him,  and  whether  he 
really  would  die  all  alone  in  that  dreadful  hospi- 
tal. Suddenly  a  happy  thought  seized  her,  and 
she  acted  on  it  immediately.  She  would  send 
the  letter  he  had  written  to  his  mother,  inclosed 
in  a  note  of  her  own.  Over  this  she  took  great 
pains. 

*'Dear  Mrs.  Laine,''  she  wrote,  "Frank  is  not  dead.  If 
you  could  come  and  nurse  him,  perhaps  he  would  get  well. 
I  hope  you  will  forgive  him.    He  is  a  good  boy. 

"Your  loving 

"Floride." 

The  days  that  followed  were  full  of  suspense. 
She  had  no  doubt  that  Frank's  mother  would 
come,  but  she  was  afraid  Frank  would  be  angry 
with  her.  She  had  promised  to  keep  the  letter 
until  he  died,  and  now  she  had  broken  her 
promise.    What  would  he  think  of  her? 

One  day  she  was  having  a  cry  all  by  herself 
in  the  summer-house  when  she  saw  Miss  Nelson 
come  up  the  garden  walk.  Dear,  kind  Miss  Nel- 
son !    At  any  other  time  Floride  would  have  run 


FLORIDE'S  PATIENT  107 

to  meet  her,  but  she  was  too  utterly  wretched 
now  to  want  to  see  anybody. 

Miss  Nelson  stayed  a  long  time,  and  Floride 
sat  listlessly  in  the  summer-house,  wondering 
what  they  were  talking  about,  but  seeming  to 
see  through  all  her  dreamy  thoughts  Frank's 
tired,  patient  eyes  watching  for  her. 

By  and  by  Miss  Nelson  came  out  with  Miss 
Elmer.  As  they  went  slowly  down  the  walk, 
Floride  heard  her  Sunday-school  teacher  say: 
"Now  you  will  let  her  go,  won't  you,  Carrie 
dear?" 

"A  Yankee  soldier,"  Miss  Elmer  said,  in 
feeble  remonstrance.  She  hated  the  North  bit- 
terly, but  she  could  not  look  into  Miss  Nelson's 
sweet,  sad  face,  remembering  how  much  she  had 
suffered  by  that  cruel  war,  and  yet  steel  her 
heart  against  the  wounded  soldier  for  whom  her 
friend  was  pleading. 

"He  will  never  fight  again,  poor  fellow,"  said 
Miss  Nelson,  softly.  "She  did  him  so  much 
good,  and  since  she  ceased  to  come  he  has  just 
pined  away." 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Carrie,  reluctantly,  and  out 
of  the  summer-house  flew  Floride. 

"Oh,  let  me  go  now,  please — this  minute!"  she 


108  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

begged.  ^Tlease,  please,  please  do,  Aunt  Car- 
rie." 

Now,  Miss  Elmer  never  did  anything  by 
halves.  "Well,"  she  said  again,  but  assentingly 
this  time.  "And  if  you  will  go,  I  might  as  well 
send  the  boy  something  to  eat.  Can  you  wait 
until  I  pack  the  basket?" 

"Yes;  oh  yes!"  chirped  Floride;  but  she  was 
sorry  she  had  consented  after  a  while,  for  it 
took  Aunt  Carrie  so  long.  Too  happy  to  sit  still, 
she  flew  about  picking  flowers  for  her  soldier, 
and  when  at  last  the  basket  was  filled  with  all 
sorts  of  dainties  to  tempt  a  sick  man's  appetite, 
she  rushed  off. 

Over  sticks  and  stones  she  flew,  taking  the 
short-cut  through  the  woods  in  her  hot  haste, 
and  at  every  step  out  flew  something  from  the 
basket.  Peaches  rolled  under  the  trees,  a  little 
stream  of  milk  trickled  down  the  front  of  her 
new  frock,  and  cookies  strewed  her  pathway, 
but  she  was  perfectly  unconscious  of  the  havoc. 
There  was  the  dear  church  at  last,  and  there  was 
Frank.  But  oh,  how  changed !  She  had  thought 
he  was  thin  and  pale  before,  but  now  his  eyes 
were  sunken,  and  there  were  dark  circles  around 


FLORIDE'S  PATIENT  109 

them,  and  his  blue  lips  made  a  hard  line  that 
told  of  pain  even  to  the  child. 

"Oh,  Frank!  Frank!"  she  moaned,  and  he  held 
out  his  arms  and  clasped  her  close  to  him. 

"Don't  go  away,  Florrie,"  he  murmured.  "I 
haven't  anybody  but  you." 

"Auntie  w^ouldn't  let  me  come  before,"  she 
]  whispered,  sinking  her  voice  involuntarily  be- 
cause his  was  so  feeble. 

"I  know,"  he  answered.  "But  I  was  sure  she'd 
let  you  come  before — I  died." 

"Oh,  Frank,  you  mustn't!"  moaned  the  little 
girl. 

"I'm  not  afraid.  If  mamma  was  here,  per- 
haps, I  would  be.  But  I  don't  mind  if  I  do,  now 
I've  got  you  again." 

His  mention  of  his  mother  reminded  Floride 
of  the  confession  she  had  to  make,  and  set  her 
heart  beating  wildly.  She  felt  as  if  she  could 
not  tell  him  at  once,  so  to  change  the  subject  she 
said:  "I  reckon  Aunt  Carrie  is  sorry  she 
wouldn't  let  me  come.  She  sent  a  whole  lot  of 
things  for  you  to  eat.  See !"  and  she  triumphant- 
ly took  off  the  basket  cover. 

Behold,  the  only  thing  the  basket  contained 
was  a  broken  cup !    Frank  actually  smiled  at  the 


110  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

child's  rueful  face.  "Never  mind,"  he  said;  "I 
don't  want  to  eat,  Floride;  I  just  want  to  look 
at  you.  I'm  not  half  so  homesick  now  you  are 
here." 

"Are  you  yet  homesick?"  asked  Floride. 
eagerly. 

"Oh,  don'tr  groaned  Frank. 

"My  darling!  My  precious  boy!"  cried  a 
voice,  and  there  stood — his  mother! 

Frank  had  often  dreamed  of  seeing  her  beside 
him,  but  he  knew  it  was  no  dream  now  when  his 
mother's  arms  were  round  him,  and  his  tired 
head  could  rest  on  her  dear  shoulder. 

There  was  no  fear  of  his  being  angry,  but  a 
pang  of  jealousy  shot  through  Floride's  heart  as 
she  watched  them  together.  They  were  so  wrapt 
up  in  each  other  that  they  did  not  even  see  her. 
She  picked  up  her  basket,  and  was  about  to  steal 
away,  when  Frank  lifted  his  head  from  its  rest- 
ing place,  and  said :  "Mamma,  it's  Floride,  my 
little  nurse." 

Then  Mrs.  Laine  smiled  at  her  radiantly,  and 
putting  an  arm  around  her,  said:  "My  dear  lit- 
tle girl,"  in  a  way  that  meant  more  than  all  the 
thanks  in  the  world. 

"Have  you  come  to  stay?"  asked  Frank,  eager- 


FLORIDE^S  PATIENT  111 

ly,  and  when  she  answered,  "Yes,  my  darling," 
he  sank  back  on  his  pillow,  worn  out  with  ex- 
citepient,  but  perfectly  happy. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  opened  his  eyes 
again,  and  then  he  looked  at  Floride,  and  said, 
brightly:  "I'm  going  to  get  well  now." 

And  he  kept  his  word. 


A  RELIC-HUNTER'S  STRANGE 
EXPERIENCE 

The  Tale  of  a  Mysterious  Bombardment 

rpRANK  MORELEY  had  scarcely  passed 
from  his  last  skirts  to  his  first  trousers  when 
he  became  known  as  the  most  persistent  "col- 
lector" in  his  native  town.  He  began,  under 
the  direction  of  his  mother,  with  pressed  flow- 
ers ;  then  in  succession  he  collected  marbles  and 
tops;  a  year  later  his  assortment  of  birds'  eggs 
were  envied  by  every  boy  in  town,  and  he  after- 
wards exhibited  at  the  county  fair  a  collection 
of  stuffed  birds  which  attracted  the  attention  of 
a  prominent  naturalist  Of  course  he  attempted 
to  collect  coins,  and  was  finally  discouraged  by 
the  expense  of  securing  a  "full  set"  of  anything 
- — even  American  cents.  When  he  grew  old 
enough  to  write  in  manly  fashion,  he  spent  all 
his  pocket  money  for  stamps  and  stationery  with 

112 


A  RELIC-HUNTER'S  EXPERIENCE         113 

which  to  solicit  autographs  of  distinguished  per- 
sonages. 

When  the  Civil  War  broke  out  Frank  im- 
portuned every  volunteer  of  his  acquaintance  to 
send  him  something — it  mattered  not  what — 
from  fort  or  field,  and  as  he  was  himself  an 
obliging  fellow,  his  acquaintances  responded  so 
freely  that  Frank's  room  soon  looked  like  a  junk- 
shop,  or  a  museum  constructed  from  the  con- 
tents of  a  rubbish  heap. 

Finally  Frank  grew  old  enough  to  go  to  the 
war  himself,  and  from  that  time  forward  he 
addressed  himself  to  his  favorite  pursuit  with 
an  industry  that  was  equally  amusing  and  amaz- 
ing to  the  veterans  among  whom  he  was  a  re- 
cruit. Nothing  came  amiss :  a  bit  of  the  saddle- 
cloth of  a  distinguished  general;  a  broken  bay- 
onet from  an  abandoned  Confederate  camp;  a 
green  cotton  umbrella  which  an  escaping 
slave  said  had  belonged  to  an  ex-Governor 
of  Virginia;  two  bricks  which  Frank  him- 
self extracted  from  the  wall  of  the  Colonial 
powder-house  at  Williamsburg;  a  shingle  from 
a  house  in  which  Washington  was  said  to  have 
passed  a  night,  were  among  the  treasures  which 
Frank  brought  into  the  tent,  only  six  feet  square, 


114  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

in  which  he  and  three  other  soldiers  lived  while 
in  camp. 

Frank's  comrades  merely  laughed  at  these 
things,  but  when  the  young  collector  endeavored 
to  make  room  for  an  entire  window-sash,  five 
feet  wide,  two  feet  high,  and  full  of  diamond- 
shaped  panes  of  glass  of  the  last  century,  the 
other  inmates  of  the  tent  objected  so  strongly 
that  Frank  had  to  bribe  a  hospital  steward  to 
secrete  the  precious  "find"  under  an  invalid's 
bed. 

What  troubled  the  young  soldier  most,  how- 
ever, was  that  he  was  unable  to  secure  any  real 
war  relics — mementos  of  great  battles.  His 
regiment,  like  most  others  in  the  cavalry  service, 
did  much  hard  work,  but  seldom — indeed,  never, 
during  Frank's  early  martial  days — took  part  in 
a  hard  fight.  But  one  day  the  Confederates 
made  a  reconnoissance  in  force  towards  the  lit- 
tle post  at  which  the  — th  Cavalry  was  stationed, 
and  there  was  much  powder  burned,  particular- 
ly by  a  Union  gun-boat,  which  steamed  up  a 
little  river  on  one  flank,  and  fired  many  shells 
over  the  woods  at  the  enemy. 

After  the  latter  retired,  and  the  cavalry  re- 
turned from  a  rather  late  pursuit,  the  regiment 


A  RELIC-HUNTER'S  EXPERIENCE        115 

halted  near  the  scene  of  the  late  engagement, 
and  Frank  improved  the  opportunity  to  scour 
the  field  for  relics.  His  search  was  abundantly 
rewarded,  for  he  found  several  unexploded 
shells,  most  of  them  very  large.  To  carry  them 
all  to  camp  was  impossible,  but  Frank  was  fer- 
tile in  resources,  so,  after  rolling  one  30-  pounder 
shell  in  his  overcoat  and  strapping  it  on  his  sad- 
dle-bow, he  lugged  the  others  to  a  bit  of  woods 
behind  the  abandoned  house  in  which  the  picket 
reserve  was  always  quartered,  laid  them  in  a  row 
on  the  ground,  placed  rails  from  a  neighboring 
fence  on  each  side  and  on  top  of  them,  and  then 
covered  the  whole  with  brush- wood,  an  immense 
heap  of  which  was  close  by. 

"There!"  said  the  relic-hunter  to  himself, 
when  his  work  was  completed,  "I  don't  believe 
any  other  collector  will  ever  find  them.  When- 
ever I  happen  to  be  detailed  for  picket  duty  at 
this  post  I  can  take  one  back  to  camp  with  me, 
and  some  day  I'll  find  a  way  to  ship  them  all 
home.  What  a  fine  lot  they'll  make  to  exchange 
with  other  collectors  for  different  things  when 
the  war  is  over !" 

About  a  fortnight  later  Frank  was  roused 
from  deep  slumber  in  the  middle  of  the  night 


116  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

by  the  self-explaining  bugle-call  of  ^'boots  and 
saddles."  The  regiment  mounted  quickly,  and 
went  at  a  gallop  through  the  little  town,  and  out 
in  the  direction  of  the  recent  reconnoissance  and 
fight.  Nobody  knew  what  was  the  matter,  but 
on  passing  the  cavalry  picket  station  itself — 
guided,  apparently,  by  the  light  of  a  fire  which 
somebody  had  made  in  the  woods.  Why  they 
had  not  fired  more  nobody  knew,  but  there  had 
been  enough  to  justify  an  alarm  of  the  entire 
post,  and  to  establish  the  belief  that  fighting 
would  begin  in  bloody  earnest  as  soon  as  day 
dawned.  So  the  cavalry  remained  "to  horse" 
all  night,  and  a  blacker  or  more  rainy  and  utterly 
miserable  night  Frank  had  never  known.  At 
daybreak  the  cavalry  advanced,  a  section  of 
artillery  being  with  the  advance,  and  scoured 
the  country ;  but  not  a  native — not  even  a  friend- 
ly negro — had  seen  one  of  the  enemy  within  a 
fortnight. 

It  was  very  strange — it  was  also  very  weari- 
some ;  so  as  soon  as  the  regiment  was  again  with- 
in the  picket  lines  the  colonel  ordered  a  halt  and 
rest.  Frank  was  fearfully  sleepy;  he  was  also 
hungry;  but  he  was  consoled  by  the  thought 
that  now  he  could  secure  and  carry  to  camp  one 


A  RELIC-HUNTER'S  EXPERIENCE        117 

of  his  hidden  relics ;  so  he  made  his  way  towards 
the  woods  behind  the  station. 

He  did  not  find  the  brush  heap,  nor  even  the 
rails,  but  just  where  he  had  hidden  the  shells — 
he  was  certain  as  to  the  place,  for  it  was  very 
near  an  old  pine-tree  with  a  peculiar  axe-mark 
on  the  trunk — ^was  a  hole  as  large  as  a  cellar, 
and  beside  it  stood  the  colonel  of  the  regiment 
and  the  captain  of  the  picket  guard.  They  were 
in  earnest  conversation,  and  Frank  heard  the 
Colonel  say: 

"I  never  heard  of  such  extraordinary  artil- 
lery practice.  You  say  the  fire  in  the  woods  was 
just  here?" 

"The  very  place,"  said  the  captain.  "There 
was  a  great  brush  heap  here,  and  some  fellow 
set  it  on  fire,  I  suppose,  while  lighting  his  pipe. 
Of  course  when  we  saw  it  there  was  no  way  to 
extinguish  it." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  the  colonel;  "but  how 
could  the  enemy  have  got  the  range  so  exactly? 
They  must  have  used  the  same  gun  each  time, 
and  plumped  their  shells  in  exactly  the  same 
spot." 

"That  isn't  possible,"  said  the  captain.  "Some 
of  the  explosions  were  much  louder  than  others, 


118  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

SO  there  must  have  been  guns  of  different  cali- 
bre." 

"It's  a  mystery,"  said  the  colonel,  after  eying 
the  hole  all  over,  as  if  looking  for  an  explana- 
tion.   "I  can't  understand  it  at  all." 

"I  can,"  said  Frank  to  himself,  turning 
abruptly  and  walking  away.  "I  see  it  all.  That 
brush  heap  took  fire,  the  fence  rails  burned,  too, 
the  shells  became  red-hot,  and  one  by  one  they 
burst  just  where  they  lay.  And  that  is  the  end 
of  the  finest  collection  of  war  relics  I  ever  saw. 
Oh,  dear!" 

Then,  like  a  dutiful  soldier,  Frank  started 
back  to  tell  the  colonel  how  the  supposed  shell- 
ing of  the  station  occurred,  but  he  met  the  offi- 
cer sauntering  back  to  his  command,  and  look- 
ing so  tired  and  cross,  as  the  result  of  a  wakeful 
night,  that  the  young  soldier  quickly  concluded 
that  he  would  wait  for  a  more  appropriate  time. 
Rejoining  his  comrades,  Frank  thought  that  he 
would  at  least  tell  somebody,  but  a  full  half  of 
the  men  were  asleep,  and  the  others  were  saying 
such  dreadful  things  about  the  enemy  who  had 
been  mean  enough  to  keep  two  or  three  thousand 
men  awake  all  night  without  the  privilege  of 
trying  to  get  even  in  the  morning,  that  the  young 


A  RELIC-HUNTER'S  EXPERIENCE        119 

relic-hunter  again  determined  to  say  nothing 
until  a  better  time  occurred. 

So  he  kept  his  secret  for  more  than  twenty 
years,  and  then  he  accidentally  met  his  old 
colonel,  took  him  home  to  dinner,  showed  a  lot 
of  relics  he  had  picked  up  in  the  later  years  of 
the  war,  and  then  told  him  the  story  substan- 
tially as  it  is  told  here. 


CLARE'S  RIDE 
How  a  Boy  Saved  the  Third  Troop 

^HE  FOURTH  CAVALRY  is  a  fine  regi- 
-*•  ment,  and  has  won  a  splendid  reputation  for 
coolness  and  courage ;  but  of  all  its  achievements, 
it  is  prouder  of  none  than  Clare's  ride. 

In  the  first  place,  it  really  was  a  gallant  under- 
taking, and  one  that  the  boldest  veteran  might 
have  shrunk  from ;  then,  Clare  was  only  twelve 
years  old  at  the  time,  which  was  in  the  old  days 
of  Indian  fighting  in  the  West.  Clare's  father 
was  a  captain  of  the  Third  Troop,  which  was 
stationed  at  Fort  Beaver,  a  small  frontier  post 
in  the  White  River  country.  Clare's  mother 
was  dead,  and  since  his  ninth  year  the  boy  had 
lived  with  his  father  at  the  fort. 

Though,  of  course,  not  a  regularly  enlisted 
member  of  the  regiment,  Clare  regarded  him- 
self as  belonging  to  it.  He  wore  the  uniform, 
turned  out  to  guard  mount  at  daybreak,  attended 

120 


CLARE'S  RIDE  121 

drills,  and  performed  the  duties  assigned  to  him 
;with  the  promptness  and  precision  of  an  old 
soldier,  Clare's  father  believed  that  the  disci- 
pline of  military  life  would  be  of  service  to  the 
boy  in  after  years.  It  must  be  admitted  that 
when  roused  out  of  a  sound  sleep  by  the  bugle- 
call  on  a  cold  winter  morning,  Clare  would 
gladly  have  turned  over  in  his  warm  bed  for 
just  one  more  nap.  But  he  remembered  what 
his  friend.  Sergeant  Tom,  once  said :  "If  a  man 
is  afraid  of  the  weather,  what  will  he  be  when 
it  comes  to  bullets?"  And  so,  though  he  yawned, 
rubbed  his  eyes,  and  shivered  a  good  deal,  he 
was  never  late  at  roll-call. 

There  was  not  a  man  in  the  regiment  who  did 
not  love  the  little  fellow,  with  his  frank,  serious 
face,  and  his  quaint,  dignified  air.  And  not  one 
of  them  but  saluted  him  as  respectfully  as  if  he 
had  really  been  an  officer.  It  was  because  they 
knew  that  from  the  tips  of  his  small  cavalry 
boots,  with  their  jingling  spurs,  to  the  crown  of 
his  blue  cap,  with  its  crossed  sabres,  Clare  was 
a  gentleman,  and  would  sooner  have  lost  his 
right  hand  than  tell  a  lie  or  carry  a  tale.  "If 
that  boy,"  remarked  Sergeant  Tom,  "should  say 
that  he  had  seen  a  drove  of  elephants  out  on 


122  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

the  plain  yonder,  I  should  believe  him,  for  it 
would  be  true." 

During  Clare's  three  years'  experience  as  a 
soldier,  the  Indians  had  remained  quiet,  and  the 
most  exciting  event  w^hich  had  occurred  in  all 
that  time  was  a  chase  after  strayed  cattle,  in 
which  he  had  taken  part.  But  now  there  began 
to  be  rumors  of  trouble.  The  Sioux  on  the 
neighboring  reservation  were  said  to  be  prepar- 
ing for  war.  Clare  noticed  that  his  father  looked 
grave,  and  that  there  were  frequent  consulta- 
tions between  the  officers.  The  stockade,  or  high 
wall  of  logs  driven  into  the  ground  and  bolted 
firmly  together,  which  constituted  the  defences 
of  the  fort,  was  repaired  and  strengthened. 
Rifles  and  sabres  were  cleaned  and  polished. 
Sentries  were  doubled  on  the  platforms  over- 
looking the  plain,  and  strict  orders  were  issued, 
forbidding  any  soldier  to  leave  the  fort. 

From  his  bedroom  window  in  the  upper  story 
of  the  officers'  quarters,  Clare  often  saw  wild- 
looking  figures,  in  plumed  head-dresses,  career- 
ing swiftly  to  and  fro  on  their  wiry  little  ponies, 
far  off  on  the  prairie.  Miles  away,  below  the 
level  horizon-line,  tall  columns  of  smoke  rose 
up  against  the  blue  sky,  and  melted  into  the  clear 


CLARETS   RIDE  123 

air.  Sergeant  Tom  said  that  these  smokes  were 
signals,  by  means  of  which  the  scattered  parties 
of  Indians  communicated  with  each  other  at  a 
distance. 

Day  after  day  went  by,  and  Clare  began  to 
think  that  the  Indians  meant  no  harm,  after  all. 
He  saw,  too,  that  his  father  and  the  other  officers 
looked  more  cheerful.  Only  Sergeant  Tom 
shook  his  head,  and  said:  "Wait!" 

One  afternoon  Clare  sat  in  his  room  working 
out  an  example  on  his  slate.  It  was  warm,  and 
the  whirring  of  the  locusts  in  the  long  grass  of 
the  prairie  coming  through  the  open  window 
made  him  drowsy.  Two  or  three  times  he  nod- 
ded over  the  table,  and  at  last  he  must  really 
have  fallen  asleep,  for  the  next  he  knew  there 
was  a  sudden  tumult  of  shouts  and  cries,  tramp- 
ling of  hoofs,  and  firing  of  guns.  Then  came 
the  quick,  sharp  notes  of  the  bugle  sounding  the 
alarm. 

He  ran  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The 
whole  plain  seemed  alive  with  Indians,  wheel- 
ing and  galloping  hither  and  thither.  Some  of 
the  men  on  the  platforms  were  firing  over  the 
edge  of  the  stockade;  others  were  hurrying 
across   the   parade-ground,   buckling  on   their 


124  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

belts  as  they  went.  In  the  middle  of  the  open 
space  he  saw  his  father,  with  his  sword  drawn, 
looking  very  calm  and  brave  as  he  issued  his  or- 
ders. 

With  his  heart  beating  rapidly,  Clare  put  on 
his  cap  and  ran  down-stairs.  At  the  door  he  met 
Sergeant  Tom,  who  smiled  as  he  saw  the  boy. 

"Well,  lad,"  he  said,  "you  are  going  to  see 
some  real  soldiering  now.  Are  you  frightened, 
Clare?" 

"A  little,"  admitted  Clare. 

"That's  because  you  are  not  used  to  the  busi- 
ness," said  Sergeant  Tom.  "When  you  have 
seen  as  many  skirmishes  as  I  have,  you  won't 
mind  a  bit  of  a  brush  like  this."  And  shoulder- 
ing his  rifle,  he  marched  off  toward  the  stockade, 
as  erect  and  cool  as  if  on  drill. 

After  their  first  repulse,  the  Indians  drew 
back  out  of  range  of  the  marksmen  in  the  fort, 
but  apparently  with  no  intention  of  giving  up 
the  attack.  Spreading  out  in  such  a  way  as  to 
surround  the  stockade  on  all  sides,  they  dis- 
mounted from  their  ponies,  placed  sentinels  to 
keep  a  close  watch  upon  the  movements  of  the 
whites,  and  prepared  to  camp  for  the  night. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  darkness  stole  slow- 


CLARE'S   RIDE  125 

ly  over  the  wide  surface  of  the  prairie.  Never 
had  the  sight  seemed  so  solemn  to  Clare,  and 
for  a  moment  his  stout  little  heart  sank  in  his 
breast,  and  the  tears  welled  into  his  eyes.  But 
he  dashed  them  away,  with  a  feeling  of  shame ; 
for  there,  on  the  platform  beneath  his  window, 
was  Sergeant  Tom,  pacing  to  and  fro,  with  his 
rifle  on  his  arm,  whistling  softly  as  he  walked. 
Nevertheless,  he  could  not  shake  off  the  gloomy 
thoughts  that  had  seized  him,  and  presently  he 
resolved  to  go  down  and  talk  with  his  father. 

When  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs, 
however,  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices  in  his 
father's  room.  As  he  turned  to  go  up-stairs 
again,  he  heard  his  own  name  mentioned.  It 
was  his  father  who  was  speaking. 

"If  it  were  not  for  my  poor  little  Clare,"  he 
was  saying,  "I  could  face  it  better.  I  should 
have  sent  him  away  at  the  first  rumor,  but  no 
one  believed  that  there  would  be  any  serious 
trouble." 

"You  think  that  we  are  in  a  tight  place,  cap- 
tain?" said  another  voice. 

"You  can  judge  for  yourself,"  responded  the 
captain.    "The  Indians  number  fully  five  hun- 


126  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

dred,  and  we  have  but  thirty  men  to  defend  the 
fort  with." 

"There  are  the  six  troops  at  Stanley,  only 
twenty  miles  away." 

"It  might  as  well  be  two  hundred,  for  we 
have  no  means  of  getting  word  to  them  in  time. 
According  to  the  custom  of  these  Indians,  we 
shall  be  attacked  in  force  at  daybreak  to-mor- 
row, and  against  a  combined  rush  we  could  not 
hold  out  half  an  hour." 

"With  your  permission,  captain,"  said  a  voice 
which  had  not  hitherto  taken  part  in  the  con- 
versation, "I  will  make  a  dash  for  it.  With  a 
good  horse — " 

"Impossible,  lieutenant!  You  would  not  go 
a  furlong.  No;  we  must  do  our  best  to  beat 
them  off  until  help  arrives." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "Let  us  go  to  our 
posts,  gentlemen.  If  the  worst  comes,  we  can 
but  do  our  duty." 

Clare  crept  up-stairs,  and  sat  down  in  the 
dark  to  think.  For  a  time  he  was  sick  with  the 
terror  of  what  he  had  overheard ;  then  his  cour- 
age began  to  come  back  to  him,  and  with  it  q 
great  resolve.    He  would  save  the  fort! 

A  day  or  two  before  he  had  discovered  b^ 


CLARE'S  RIDE  127 

chance,  at  the  foot  of  the  stockade  behind  the 
stable,  a  hole  which,  by  a  little  digging,  he  could 
enlarge  sufficiently  to  crawl  through.  He  had 
meant  to  speak  of  this  hole  to  Sergeant  Tom, 
but  in  the  excitement  of  the  attack  he  had  for- 
gotten to  do  so.  He  was  glad  of  it  now,  for  that 
hole  was  an  important  part  of  the  plan  he  meant 
to  carry  out. 

At  some  distance  from  the  fort  there  was  a 
deep  ditch  or  gully,  probably  the  bed  of  a  dried- 
up  creek.  Looking  from  his  window  at  sunset, 
Clare  had  observed  at  the  bottom  of  this  gully  a 
number  of  horses,  fastened  by  halters,  belonging 
to  the  savages. 

Now  the  whole  surface  of  the  prairie  was 
covered  with  tall,  thick  grass,  and  a  person  pass- 
ing through  the  hole  in  the  stockade  might,  with 
great  caution,  work  his  way  to  the  gully  where 
the  horses  were.    This  was  Clare's  plan. 

Pulling  off  his  boots,  with  their  noisy  spurs, 
he  crept  softly  down-stairs  in  his  stocking-feet. 
Keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  buildings,  he  man- 
aged to  reach  the  stockade  unseen  by  those  with- 
in. It  was  the  work  of  a  very  few  minutes  to 
dig  away  the  soft  earth  so  that  he  could  squeeze 
through.    Once  outside,  the  real  danger  of  his 


128  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

attempt  came  upon  him  with  overwhelming 
force,  turning  him  faint.  But  he  resolutely 
shook  off  his  weakness,  and  began  crawling 
towards  the  gully  on  his  hands  and  knees. 

That  terrible  journey  seemed  long  hours  to 
Clare.  Every  instant  he  expected  to  hear  the 
yell  of  discovery  and  the  whiz  of  a  rifle-ball. 
Once,  indeed,  he  was  very  near  detection.  One 
of  the  Indian  sentinels  sauntered  past  within  a 
dozen  feet  of  where  he  lay  prone  in  the  grass. 
Hardly  breathing  until  the  sound  of  the  man's 
footsteps  died  away,  he  resumed  his  crawl,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  more  found  himself  on  the 
edge  of  the  gully. 

He  slid  softly  down,  and  approached  one  of 
the  horses,  tied  a  little  apart  from  the  other  ani- 
mals. Fortunately  for  Clare,  it  was  not  an  In- 
dian pony,  which  might  have  been  unruly,  but 
a  well-broken  horse,  stolen  from  some  white 
settler.  It  had  neither  saddle  nor  bridle,  but 
Clare  was  used  to  riding  bare-back.  Leading 
the  animal  slowly  down  the  gully  until  he  be- 
lieved himself  at  a  safe  distance,  he  urged  him 
up  the  sloping  bank  to  the  plain  above,  mounted 
him,  and  set  off  at  a  wild  gallop.  The  events  of 
that  strange  ride  seemed  like  a  dream  to  Clare, 


CLARE'S  RIDE  129 

and  he  could  hardly  realize  that  he  had  done 
the  twenty  miles,  when  the  sharp  challenge  of 
the  sentry  caused  him  to  pull  up  his  steaming 
horse. 

"Clare!  You  here  alone  at  this  time  of  the 
night!" 

It  required  but  a  dozen  words  to  explain  his 
errand.  The  major  in  command  of  the  detach- 
ment was  a  thorough  soldier,  and  in  a  very  few 
minutes  two  hundred  stout  troopers  were  in 
their  saddles,  and,  led  by  the  major,  beside 
whom  rode  Clare  on  a  fresh  horse,  they  started 
off  at  a  sharp  trot. 

Clare  was  tortured  by  the  dread  that  the  re- 
lief  would  arrive  too  late.  Every  now  and  then 
he  glanced  anxiously  at  the  eastern  horizon  for 
signs  of  the  coming  dawn. 

"Take  it  easy,  Clare,"  said  the  major,  in  re- 
sponse to  the  boy's  request  that  the  speed  of  the 
squadron  should  be  quickened.  "Those  rascals 
won't  attack  till  daybreak,  and  we  shall  get  there 
in  time  to  catch  them  in  the  rear  and  do  them  up 
nicely,  never  you  fear." 

And  so  they  rode  on  over  the  silent  prairie 
under  the  large  stars,  with  thumps  of  hoofs, 
creaking  of  saddle-leathers,  and  jingle  of  bits 


130  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

and  spurs.  At  last  Clare's  quick  eye  detected  a 
pale,  milky  glow  low  down  in  the  eastern  sky; 
and  now  they  were  within  a  mile  of  the  fort. 
Making  a  detour  to  avoid  the  gully  which  Clare 
had  crossed,  the  detachment  was  halted  under 
cover  of  a  slight  rise  of  ground. 

Brighter  and  brighter  grew  the  glow  in  the 
east,  until  the  stern  features  of  the  men,  drawn 
up  in  two  long  lines,  were  visible  in  the  gray 
light.  Suddenly  the  far-off  whiplike  crack  of  a 
rifle  came  to  their  ears  on  the  gentle  morning 
air,  followed  by  a  continuous  rattle.  The  at- 
tack had  begun. 

The  major  straightened  himself  in  his  saddle, 
and  drew  his  sabre  with  a  clang.  "Quick, 
march!" 

The  men  moved  off  steadily,  increasing  their 
pace  as  they  rode.  Rounding  the  hillock,  Clare 
saw  hundreds  of  dark  figures  rushing  towards 
the  stockade,  from  the  top  of  which  sprang  a 
wavering  fringe  of  fire.  He  heard  the  major 
give  an  order  in  a  loud,  stern  voice ;  then  he  was 
whirled  onward  in  a  mad  confusion  of  rearing 
horses,  shouting  men,  crashing  guns,  and  flash- 
ing sabres. 

He  remembered  nothing  more  distinctly  until 


CLARETS  RIDE  131 

he  heard  some  one  crying,  "Shoulder  high!" 
and  found  himself  being  borne  through  the  gates 
of  the  fort  by  a  dozen  cheering  men,  among 
whom  he  recognized  Sergeant  Tom,  with  pow- 
der-blackened face,  waving  his  cap  and  yelling 
like  an  Indian. 

Later,  when  the  enemy  had  been  driven  miles 
over  the  prairie,  and  scattered  in  every  direc- 
tion, the  men  were  drawn  up  in  lines  on  the 
parade-ground,  and  calling  Clare  to  his  side,  the 
major  made  an  address  which  caused  the  boy  to 
turn  very  red,  though  it  was  not  to  be  denied  he 
felt  very  proud,  too. 

After  this.  Sergeant  Tom,  stepping  out  of  the 
line,  said :  "Three  cheers  for  Clare!  Now,  then, 
with  a  will!" 

The  roar  that  went  up  shook  the  very  colors 
on  the  flag-staff,  and  rolled  far  and  wide  over 
the  prairie.  Then  the  bugle  sounded  a  lively 
air,  and  the  men  dispersed  to  their  quarters,  and 
Clare,  his  father,  and  the  major  went  to  break- 
fast. 

And  this  was  Clare's  famous  ride. 


HOW  HO-TO-OTO  BECAME  A 
RECRUIT 

The  Tale  of  an  Indian  Soldier 

TT  was  a  cold,  dismal  day  in  early  summer. 
^  The  wind  blew  sharply  from  the  north,  the 
sky  was  dark  and  cloudy,  the  ground  wet  from 
the  morning's  sleet.  Old  Chief  Troyka,  driving 
home  from  the  mission  church,  buttoned  his  long 
coat  more  tightly  about  him,  and  with  a  dis- 
gusted "Ugh!"  at  such  uncomfortable  weather, 
plied  his  whip  vigorously  over  the  backs  of  his 
two  rough-coated  cayuses.  The  ponies,  on  feel- 
ing the  lash,  looked,  if  possible,  a  little  more  un- 
happy than  an  Indian  pony  usually  looks,  but 
otherwise  scorned  to  notice  the  indignity,  and 
steadfastly  refrained  from  hastening  the  gait 
they  had  themselves  chosen.  So  Troyka,  feeling 
unequal  to  a  contest  with  them  just  then,  gave 
another  grunt  of  discontent,  and  settled  back  in 
his  seat  beside  his  passive  squaw. 

132 


HO-TO-OTO  BECOMES  A  RECRUIT       133 

Wenatchee  was  not  only  passive,  but  was,  in 
spite  of  disagreeable  weather  and  obstreperous 
ponies,  perfectly  content.  And  why  should  she 
not  be?  Was  she  not  arrayed  in  a  new  green 
woolen  dress,  with  a  tasteful  blue  shawl  over  it, 
and  a  wonderful  "store"  hat  with  red  feathers? 
And  wasn't  she  holding  aloft  a  tremendous  green 
cotton  umbrella — up  for  neither  sun,  rain,  nor 
snow?  But,  then,  every  one  doesn't  possess  um- 
brellas, and  though  Wenatchee  was  not  unduly 
proud,  she  did  love  to  display  her  fine  posses- 
sions. And  above  all  else,  was  she  not  seated  in 
the  springy  wagon  by  the  side  of  her  lordly  hus- 
band, instead  of  trudging  along  the  road,  as  she 
had  done  in  days  gone  by?  Indeed,  Wenatchee 
had  nothing  to  complain  of.  Moreover,  she  had 
not  Troyka's  main  cause  of  discontent.  She 
knew  well  that  neither  weather  nor  ponies  were 
disturbing  the  old  chief,  nor  were  his  thoughts 
dwelling  upon  the  sermon  or  the  church  they 
had  just  left.  She  knew  that  they  were  hovering 
angrily  and  painfully  about  the  unpainted  log 
cabin  next  to  the  church — the  gloomy  "skookum- 
house,"  in  which  at  that  moment  his  sister's  son 
Ho-to-oto  was  confined. 


134  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

It  was  only  last  week  that  old  Holos-nin,  a 
neighbor  of  Troyka's,  who  bore  the  chief  a  last- 
ing grudge  because  he  had  once  caused  his  son 
to  be  sent  to  the  skookum-house  for  petty  theft, 
met  Troyka  on  the  road  by  the  agency,  and  said : 

^'How !  Troyka !  A  cattle-thief  is  worse  than 
a  plough-thief,  isn't  he?" 

"Much  worse,"  replied  Troyka,  astonished. 

"And  gets  a  longer  time  in  the  skookum-house, 
doesn't  he?" 

"Much  longer.  But  you  know,  Holos-nin. 
Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  Only  wanted  to  remind  you  of  it,  so  that 
you  wouldn't  forget  when  you  came  to  try  your 
sister's  son  Ho-to-oto  for  stealing  my  cattle — 
three  of  them." 

"Stealing  your  cattle?  Ho-to-oto?  What  do 
you  mean,  Holos-nin?" 

"What  I  say.  They've  been  stolen,  and  sold 
to  a  butcher  in  Davenport?" 

"Well,  Ho-to-oto  didn't  do  it." 

"Who  else  did,  then ;  tell  me?  Who  would  do 
it  but  Ho-to-oto,  that  good-for-nothing,  lazy  In- 
dian, who  spends  his  time  wandering  over  the 
plains  while  we  are  ploughing  our  land?  We'll 
see  what  the  other  judges  think!" 


HO-TO-OTO  BECOMES  A  RECRUIT      135 

"They  can  think,  and  you  can  talk,  Holos-nin ; 
but  it  will  take  more  than  your  word  to  put  Ho- 
to-oto  in  the  skookum-house.  It  will  take  a  wit- 
ness." 

So  Troyka  had  answered  in  his  indignation, 
but  his  heart  had  been  troubled,  and  when 
Wenatchee  had  chimed  in  afterwards,  with 
abuse  of  Ho-to-oto  for  bringing  disgrace  on  his 
mother's  brother,  he  had  said  nothing. 

For  Ho-to-oto  was  idle.  He  wouldn't  go  to 
school,  and  he  wouldn't  work.  Ploughing  and 
reading  were  alike  distasteful  to  him.  The  wild 
flowers  grew  on  his  barren,  unbroken  land,  and 
his  ragged  tepee  fluttered  in  the  wind  in  sight 
of  his  neighbors'  well-built  houses.  And  be- 
cause of  these  things  the  rest  of  the  tribe  had  a 
contempt  for  him.  For  they  were  a  civilized, 
thrifty,  self-respecting  group  of  Indians,  who 
tilled  their  own  farms,  raised  their  own  crops, 
sent  their  children  to  the  mission  school,  and 
drove  to  church  every  Sunday  in  their  own 
spring  wagons  and  buck-boards. 

And  Troyka  was  the  big  man  of  the  tribe: 
the  largest  cattle-owner,  the  most  prosperous 
farmer,  and  one  of  the  three  judges,  as  well  as 
hereditary  chief. 


136  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

And  now  this  proud  old  man,  who  had  always 
respected  himself  and  held  his  head  so  high, 
was  to  suffer  disgrace  through  his  nephew;  for 
Holos-nin  had  found  a  witness,  and  the  Indian 
police  had  accordingly  brought  Ho-to-oto  into 
the  agency  the  day  before,  and  confined  him  in 
the  skookum-house  to  await  his  trial  the  follow- 
ing Saturday. 

Ho-to-oto  had  not  stolen  the  cattle,  for  he  was 
honest,  if  he  was  idle,  and  at  first  he  had  laughed 
at  the  accusation ;  but  when  he  heard  there  was 
a  witness  against  him,  he  grew  troubled,  for  he 
had  spent  the  whole  day  wandering,  gun  in  hand, 
over  the  brown,  barren  plains  that  he  loved,  and 
he  had  not  seen  an  Indian  who  could  testify 
where  he  had  been. 

He  wished  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
that  he  had  stayed  at  home  instead  and  ploughed 
his  land,  where  the  scrubby  "grease-wood"  of 
the  prairie  still  grew.  If  he  had  only  heeded 
his  uncle's  advice,  and  sometimes  worked  a  lit- 
tle, instead  of  always  following  his  own  desires 
and  going  hunting  or  fishing! 

Fishing!  Ho-to-oto  strained  his  ears  to  hear 
the  roar  and  rush  of  the  river  below  as  it  swept 
along,    swirling    past   the    rocks,    dashing    up 


HO-TO-OTO  BECOMES  A  RECRUIT       137 

against  the  big  cliffs,  and  tossing  about  the  great 
logs  on  their  way  down  to  the  Columbia  as 
though  they  were  mere  bits  of  bark.  When 
could  he  stand  on  the  rocks  in  mid-river  again? 

It  didn't  comfort  him  much  in  his  imprison- 
ment to  know  that  his  uncle,  who  was  fond  of 
him  and  believed  him  innocent,  would  be  one 
of  the  judges.  If  the  other  two  found  him  guil- 
ty, the  majority  would  rule,  and  he  would  have 
to  be  punished. 

And  Ho-to-oto  knew  what  the  punishment 
would  be — a  long  imprisonment  in  the  skookum- 
house,  shut  away  from  the  sunshine  and  the  wide 
sweep  of  the  prairies;  away  from  the  foaming 
water  and  the  gleaming  fish ;  where  he  could  not 
feel  the  fresh  air  on  his  cheek  or  hear  the  wind 
making  strange  sounds  through  the  pines,  or 
roam  at  will  over  the  hills. 

Those  were  bitter  thoughts  to  Ho-to-oto,  yet 
even  they  were  forgotten  in  the  one  bitterest 
thought  of  all — they  would  cut  off  his  hair :  his 
long,  straight,  black  hair,  that  hung  in  thick, 
matted  strands  half-way  to  his  waist,  would  be 
shorn,  and  the  short,  stubby  ends  would  tell  of 
his  disgrace  long  after  he  would  be  out  of  prison. 

The  day  of  Ho-to-oto's  trial  dawned  bright 


138  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

and  fair.  Early  in  the  morning  all  the  Indians 
of  the  tribe  came  thronging  into  the  agency.  A 
strange,  picturesque-looking  crowd  they  were, 
the  men  with  their  long  hair,  and  the  squaws  in 
their  many-colored  clothes.  Indeed,  these  latter 
were  wonderful  to  look  upon,  in  skirts  of  every 
hue,  with  bright  red,  green,  or  purple  plaid 
shawls  and  brilliant  handkerchiefs,  topped  with 
gay  head-cloths  or  still  gayer  hats. 

But  the  Indians  were  not  the  only  ones  who 
were  to  be  present  at  the  trial.  Over  in  the  fort 
across  the  river  a  young  cavalry  officer  swung 
himself  on  his  horse  and  cantered  swiftly  down 
the  line,  followed  by  a  stiff,  solemn-faced  ser- 
geant, also  on  horseback.  He  was  bound  for  the 
agency,  under  orders  from  his  commander  to 
see  if  he  could  induce  any  of  the  Indians  to  enlist 
as  soldiers. 

As  the  two  men  clattered  down  the  long,  steep 
hill  to  the  river,  the  Indians,  having  tied  their 
horses  to  the  fence  around  the  agency,  passed 
into  the  court-room.  The  three  judges  took  their 
seats  on  the  platform  at  one  end  of  the  room,  old 
Troyka  in  the  middle,  and  an  lidian  policeman 
was  sent  to  the  skookum-house  for  the  prisoner. 

Ho-to-oto  came  and  stood  at  the  left  of  the 


HO-TO-OTO  BECOMES  A  RECRUIT       139 

judges,  sunk  in  despair.  Then,  all  being  present, 
old  Holos-nin  was  ordered  to  tell  his  story. 
Just  as  he  commenced,  the  riders  from  the  post 
reached  the  bridge,  and  after  stopping  a  mo- 
ment to  breathe  their  horses,  began  the  ascent 
on  the  other  side. 

When  Holos-nin  finished  his  long-winded  ac- 
count, Ho-to-oto  was  asked  what  he  had  to  say. 
In  a  hopeless  tone  the  poor  fellow  told  how  he 
had  gone  off  that  day  far  beyond  Huckleberry 
Mountain  and  the  big  swamp,  and  had  not  got- 
ten back  until  ten  at  night.  Now  Huckleberry 
Mountain  was  in  exactly  the  opposite  direction 
from  the  little  town  where  the  cattle  had  been 
taken  to  be  sold,  and  no  one  could  possibly  get 
to  both  places  on  the  same  day.  So  one  of  the 
judges  asked : 

"Did  any  one  see  you  going  to  Huckleberry 
Mountain,  Ho-to-oto?  Have  you  a  witness  to 
prove  you  were  there?" 

"A  white  man,  a  soldier,  saw  me,"  replied  Ho- 
to-oto,  drearily.  "He  was  hunting,  too,  and  I 
sold  him  four  birds.    I  don't  know  who  he  was." 

Several  Indians  in  the  room  grunted  con- 
temptuously at  this,  and  Holos-nin  laughed. 


140  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

"Have  you  a  witness,  Holos-nin?"  next  asked 
the  judge. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  old  Indian.  "Here  he  is," 
whereupon  a  young  Indian  in  a  brown  coat 
stepped  forward  and  told  how  he  had  passed 
Ho-to-oto  driving  the  three  cattle  into  Daven- 
port. 

The  judges  looked  grave ;  Troyka's  heart  was 
troubled,  and  Holos-nin  laughed  again.  He 
thought  Troyka  wouldn't  hold  his  head  quite  so 
high  after  his  sister's  son  was  imprisoned. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  clatter  in  the 
doorway;  a  young  cavalry  officer  and  a  solemn- 
faced  sergeant  came  clanking  into  the  room,  ac- 
companied by  the  Indian  agent. 

Ho-to-oto  started  forward,  laughing  himself 
now.  "There  he  is!"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  to 
the  new-comers.  "There's  my  witness !  There's 
the  solider  who  bought  my  birds!" 

"Hullo!"  exclaimed  the  sergeant,  who  didn't 
understand  a  word  Ho-to-oto  was  saying.  "Ex- 
cuse me,  sir,  but  that's  a  young  chap  who  sold  me 
some  birds  a  week  or  so  ago.  He  seems  to  be 
talking  to  me.    What's  it  about,  John?" 

At  this  the  Indian  agent  spoke  up,  and  after 


HO-TO-OTO  BECOMES  A  RECRUIT       141 

translating  what  the  agent  had  said,  asked  the 
judges  of  what  Ho-to-oto  was  accused. 

Explanations  followed  amid  much  excite- 
ment, and  before  long  the  brown-coated  Indian, 
who  afterwards  turned  out  to  have  been  the  thief 
himself,  was  detained  as  prisoner  in  Ho-to-oto's 
place,  and  Ho-to-oto  was  set  free. 

He  didn't  exult  loudly;  he  simply  walked  out 
of  the  court-room,  and  seated  himself  on  a  log 
outside  to  think. 

It  had  come  home  to  him  forcibly  what  a  poor 
opinion  the  tribe  had  of  him,  that  no  one  had 
volunteered  a  word  in  his  behalf,  and  his  heart 
was  very  sore. 

Lost  in  his  thoughts,  he  didn't  notice  that  any 
one  had  approached  till  he  felt  a  tap  on  his 
shoulder,  and  looking  up  saw  the  friendly  face 
of  the  young  officer  and  the  solemn  sergeant,  and 
heard  the  agent  ask  him  if  he  wouldn't  like  to 
be  a  soldier. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  one  bright,  sunny 
day,  two  weeks  later,  old  Troyka  and  Wenatchee 
got  into  the  spring  wagon  again,  and  drove  down 
to  the  bridge  and  up  the  steep  hill  to  the  post. 
And  there,  out  on  the  green  parade-ground,  in 
all  the  glory  of  his  uniform,  was  Ho-to-oto, 


142  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

marching  and  counter-marching,  and  bending 
and  kneeling,  and  pointing  his  gun  this  way  and 
that,  in  company  with  some  half-dozen  other 
Indian  recruits,  under  the  command  of  the 
young  officer. 

Troyka  was  immensely  proud  now  of  his 
sister's  son  as  he  gazed  at  him  in  his  trim  blue 
suit  and  important  air.  And  as  for  Wenatchee, 
her  opinion  of  him  completely  changed  at  sight 
of  the  brass  buttons,  and  she  chanted  his  praises 
in  her  soft,  guttural  tones,  as  enthusiastically  as 
she  had  formerly  abused  him. 

Ho-to-oto  himself  had  learned  a  lesson,  and 
showed  it  by  his  determination  that  the  army 
should  not  suffer  through  any  laziness  of  his. 
His  drill  was  a  serious  matter  with  him;  his 
uniform  was  even  more  serious;  and  as  for  his 
short  hair — ^well,  it  is  one  thing  to  have  your 
hair  cut  off  because  you  are  considered  a  thief, 
and  quite  another  to  be  shorn  for  glory's  sake,  to 
mark  you  a  soldier — a  noble  Indian  recruit  of 
the  United  States  army. 


"SCAPEGRACE" 
^A  Story  of  a  Great  Railroad  Strike 

npHERE  was  one  boy  at  Fort  Ransom  who 
^  was  foolish  enough  to  wish  that  there  were 
no  such  things  as  women  in  the  world,  and  that 
was  Captain  Grace's  ten-year-old  Tommy. 
There  weren't  very  many  of  them  in  Tommy's 
own  world,  to  be  sure,  and  yet  there  seemed  to 
be  so  many  from  without  "coming  in  and  inter- 
fering with  a  feller,"  as  he  expressed  it.  We 
all  know  the  old  adage,  "What  is  everybody's 
business  is  nobody's  business,"  but  Tommy —  on 
the  principle  probably  that  it  was  a  poor  rule 
that  wouldn't  work  both  ways — had  long  since 
made  up  his  mind  that  people  read  the  thing 
t'other  side  foremost,  and,  so  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, what  was  really  nobody's  business 
seemed  everybody's  business. 

It  was  nobody's  business,  for  instance,  that  he 
should  like  to  wear  a  little  beaded  buckskin  shirt 

143 


144  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

that  his  father  had  made  for  him  among  the 
Sioux  Indians,  but  the  mothers  of  other  boys  in 
the  garrison,  boys  who  hadn't  a  Sioux  hunting- 
shirt,  used  to  come  to  Captain  Grace,  or  to  Aunt 
'Ria,  and  protest  against  his  being  allowed  to 
run  wild  in  such  heathenish  garments. 

It  was  nobody's  business,  thought  Tommy, 
that  he  should  prefer  to  spend  his  holidays  four 
miles  away  from  the  fort,  among  the  railway 
men  at  the  round-house,  where  all  the  locomo- 
tives of  the  division  were  in  turn  "stabled"  and 
oiled  and  cleaned  and  fired ;  but  other  boys  were 
not  allowed  to  go,  and,  boy-like,  upbraided  their 
mothers,  who  accordingly  upbraided  Aunt  'Ria. 
It  was  nobody's  business  that  his  father  gave 
Tommy  for  his  own  purposes  the  stupendous 
sum  of  twenty-five  cents  a  week  for  spending- 
money,  stipulating  only  one  thing — that  not  a 
cent  should  ever  go  for  cigarettes ;  but  there  were 
many  good  and  devout  women  at  the  fort  who 
declared  to  Aunt  'Ria  that  this  was  simply 
throwing  money  away,  and  snaring  the  young- 
ster's path  with  temptation.  "No  boy  of  mine," 
said  more  than  one  mamma,  "shall  ever  be  al- 
lowed to  carry  about  him  the  means  of  indulg- 
ing vicious  tastes."    And  no  one  was  more  de- 


"  SCAPEGRACE  "  145 

cided  on  this  point  than  the  chaplain's  good  wife, 
whose  own  boy  had  been  the  means  of  making 
Tommy  acquainted  with  cigarettes  the  year  be- 
fore. 

In  fact,  it  was  because  of  his  refusal  to  con- 
tribute more  than  one-fifth  of  his  weekly  allow- 
ance to  the  fund  for  the  Sunday-school  Christ- 
mas Tree  that  had  led  the  lady  superintendent  to 
refer  to  him  as  Scape  Grace,  instead  of  Tommy. 
"Give  a  dog  a  bad  name,"  said  the  adage,  and 
as  with  a  dog  so  with  a  boy.  Fort  Ransom  took 
up  the  name  with  a  zest  which  was  born  of  a 
propensity  for  teasing  rather  than  any  spirit  of 
unkindness,  but  it  stuck,  as  often  will  the  most 
undeserved  of  names  or  reputations,  and  Tommy 
Grace,  through  no  real  fault  of  his  own,  became 
the  scapegrace  of  the  big  garrison. 

It  was  anything  but  fair  to  the  little  fellow. 
He  was  just  as  square  and^  honest  and  well-mean- 
ing a  boy  as  there  was  in  the  whole  community. 
Ransom  was  quite  a  large  post,  far  out  across 
the  wide,  wind-swept  prairies  of  the  West,  and 
near  the  bustling  railway  town  of  Butteville — 
generally  named  Butte  for  short.  Here  were 
stationed  during  the  year  gone  by  the  head- 
quarters and  eight  companies  of  a  regiment  of 


146  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

"regular"  infantry,  and  one  of  these  companies 
was  commanded  by  Captain  Grace.  Tommy's 
lot  might  have  been  a  very  different  one  but  for 
a  fact  you  have  probably  already  surmised — 
that  he  had  lost  his  mother.  Five  years  before, 
w^hen  he  was  a  little  bit  of  a  chap,  a  severe  and 
sudden  illness  had  swept  her  from  their  sight 
almost  before  they  could  realize  that  she  was  in 
danger.  Tommy  was  too  young  to  know  what 
he  had  lost,  but  the  blow  was  a  bitter  one  to  his 
soldier  father.  Not  for  long  months  did  he  re- 
turn to  the  regiment  after  taking  her  to  her  far- 
away Eastern  home  for  burial,  and  when  he  did 
the  captain  brought  with  him  his  sister,  a 
maiden  lady  of  nearly  his  own  age,  the  only 
thing  in  the  world  he  could  think  of  as  a  partial 
substitute  for  Tommy's  mother. 

Aunt  'Ria  had  no  experience  in  taking  care 
of  children,  but  she  had  all  manner  of  theories 
as  to  how  they  should  be  reared  and  managed. 
As  a  result  poor  Tommy's  early  boyhood  proved 
to  be  a  period  of  curiously  varying  experiments. 
What  was  right  and  proper  for  him  to  do  one 
month  was  all  wrong  the  next,  and  by  the  time 
hewas  ten  years  old  his  ideas  of  boy  rights  and 
wrongs  might  have  become  hopelessly  confused 


"  SCAPEGRACE  "  147 

but  for  his  own  propensity  for  taking  the  bit 
in  his  teeth,  and  bolting  for  advice  and  comfort 
to  his  father  himself. 

"Never  mind  v^hat  the  trouble  is,  Tommy-— 
never  mind  v^hether  the  fault  is  yours  or  some- 
body else's — never  be  afraid  to  come  and  tell 
me  the  whole  story  just  as  'straight'  as  you  know 
how.  Let  me  be  your  best  friend,  and  I'll  do  my 
best;  only  remember,  Tom,  'the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.'  I  don't  care 
what  mischief  you  can  get  into  or  wrong  you  can 
do  so  long  as  you  tell  me  all  about  it.  Conceal- 
ment is  what  I  should  fear  most" 

"Poor  little  chap!"  he  said  to  himself,  "he 
has  no  mother  to  go  to  and  sob  out  his  troubles. 
Boys  hate  to  cry  before  their  fathers,  especially 
soldier  boys.  I  can't  be  his  playmate,  for  boys 
must  have  boys  for  that,  but  I  can  be  his  friend, 
please  God !  and  teach  him  to  trust  me  and  con- 
fide in  me,  and  if  he  does  get  into  scrapes  they 
can't  be  any  worse  than  mine  were." 

And  so,  despite  his  name.  Tommy  wasn't  par- 
ticularly miserable  except  when  Aunt  'Ria  was 
lecturing,  or  "those  other  women"  were  telling 
him  about  what  he  should  be  or  shouldn't  be 
doing,  "if  you  were  my  boy."    Captain  Grace 


148  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

had  taught  him  to  stand  respectfully  and  listen 
to  it  all  in  silence,  "just  as  I  do,  Tommy,  when 
the  colonel  finds  fault  with  something  in  Com- 
pany B,  or  when  I'm  officer  of  the  day." 

"But  he  has  a  right  to,"  blurted  Tommy;  "he's 
commanding  officer.  Now  Mrs.  Croly  and 
Mrs.  Wilson  and  Mrs.  Darling,  they  haven't  any 
business  telling  Aunt  'Ria  or  me  I  shouldn't 
do  this  or  that  so  long  as  you  approve." 

"Never  mind,  Tommy.  Every  woman  thinks 
she  has,"  said  the  philosophic  captain.  "It  does 
them  good.  It  does  you  no  harm,  and  we  have 
lots  of  fun  over  it  between  ourselves.  So  never 
be  rude  or  disrespectful." 

The  division  superintendent  at  Butte  was  a 
man  just  the  age  of  Captain  Grace,  and  from 
early  boyhood  the  two  had  been  close  friends. 
Even  after  their  separation,  when  young  Grace 
was  sent  to  West  Point,  they  had  kept  up  their 
correspondence,  and  great  was  the  captain's 
pleasure  when  the  regiment  was  ordered  down 
"out  of  the  Sioux  country"  and  stationed  at  Ran- 
som, mainly  because  it  brought  him  once  more 
into  close  relations  with  George  Rollins,  his  old- 
time  school  chum  and  his  life-long  friend. 

Promotion  in  railroading  is  almost  as  slow 


"  SCAPEGRACE  "  149 

as  it  is  in  the  army,  and  Mr.  Rollins  at  forty 
was  only  a  division  superintendent,  but  every 
one  connected  with  "the  road"  was  well  aware 
that  better  things  were  in  store  for  him.  Rollins 
was  still  a  bachelor,  and  he  took  instantly  to 
Master  Tommy,  and  for  a  whole  year  that  little 
man  had  been  learning  all  the  mysteries  of  the 
round-house,  the  shops,  the  train-despatcher's 
office,  and  "the  road"  generally,  for  while  on 
Saturdays,  and  even,  it  must  be  owned,  on  oc- 
casional Sunday  afternoons,  the  captain  and  his 
old  friend  were  chatting  together  over  old  times. 
Master  Tommy,  perched  in  the  cab  of  the 
switch-engine  under  care  of  "Mike"  Farrell,  the 
engineer,  was  streaming  up  and  down  the  yards, 
darting  from  track  to  track,  shunting  cars  from 
shop  to  station,  from  storehouse  to  elevator,  mak- 
ing up  trains  and  pulling  them  hither  and  yon, 
and  all  the  time  his  eyes  and  ears  were  wide 
open,  and  he  was  practically  bent  on  "learning 
the  business." 

Farrell  taught  him  the  purpose  and  use  of 
every  lever,  rod,  stop-cock,  and  gauge  about  the 
engine ;  let  him  ring  the  bell,  whistle  for  brakes 
or  switches ;  even,  after  a  while,  let  him  stand  on 
the  engineer's  instead  of  the  fireman's  bench  at 


150  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

the  side  of  the  cab,  and  with  Farrell's  brawny, 
hairy  fist  to  guide,  seize  the  throttle-valve  with 
his  own  boy  hand  and  start  the  engine,  increase 
the  steam,  and  shut  it  off.  He  learned  how  to 
make  a  ^'gentle"  start  without  jerk  or  strain;  he 
learned  how  to  reverse  and  ^^back,"  although  he 
had  not  strength  enough  to  throw  the  great 
geared  lever  that  Farrell  handled  so  easily.  He 
learned  all  the  science  of  "firing,"  so  far  as  it 
could  be  taught  on  a  switch  engine,  and  later 
Mr.  Rollins  handed  him  over  to  the  engineer 
of  the  great  transcontinental  express  trains,  and 
bid  Ned  Weston,  who  ran  No.  615,  the  biggest 
and  most  powerful  passenger  locomotive  on  the 
mountain  division,  take  him  on  his  Saturdays  as 
far  west  as  Summit  Siding,  away  up  at  the  top 
of  the  range,  and  there  present  him  to  "Hank" 
Lee,  whose  engine.  No.  525,  made  the  daily 
down-grade  run  with  the  East-bound  mail — a 
light,  swift  train — from  Summit  to  Butte  in 
forty-seven  minutes.  That  was  a  glorious  run, 
and  Tommy  loved  to  tell  of  it ;  so  much  so,  that 
other  boys,  and  lots  of  them,  grew  tired  or  envi- 
ous, or  both;  and  even  while  secretly  wishing 
that  they  knew  the  division  superintendent,  and 
that  he  would  give  them  "the  run  of  the  road" 


"  SCAPEGRACE  "  151 

as  he  did  Tommy  Grace,  they  feigned  to  scorn 
the  whole  business,  and  to  ridicule  Tommy's 
railway  friends,  and  sneer  at  his  aims  and  aspira- 
tions— for  Tommy  had  long  since  decided  he  did 
not  mean  to  be  a  soldier ;  he  was  going  to  be  a 
locomotive  engineer. 

"If  I  were  Scapegrace,"  said  one  of  his  best 
friends  among  the  boys,  "I'd  shake  books  en- 
tirely and  stick  to  the  round-house ;  he's  learned 
that  lesson,  anyhow." 

"If  I  were  Captain  Grace,"  said  the  school- 
master, "I  should  require  Thomas  to  spend  his 
Saturdays  studying  what  he  has  missed  during 
the  week,  instead  of  wasting  time  among  those 
railway  hands." 

"And  if  I  had  any  influence  with  Captain 
Grace — or  if  Miss  Grace  had,  either — some- 
thing would  be  done  to  redeem  that  poor  little 
fellow,"  said  more  than  one  of  the  army  mothers 
at  Ransom.  "Think  of  the  danger  he  is  run- 
ning." 

But  Captain  Grace  was  deaf  to  protests  of 
this  nature.  He  listened  to  what  was  said  with 
his  quiet  smile,  spent  his  hour  with  Tommy 
every  evening  over  the  slate  and  books,  satisfied 
himself  that  what  the  boy  did  know  he  knew 


152  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

thoroughly  and  well,  and  almost  every  Saturday 
rode  into  Butte  with  him,  and  was  there  to  meet 
him  when  No.  4  (the  mail  train)  came  clanging 
into  the  station  late  in  the  afternoon.  Tommy's 
cinder-streaked,  chubby,  happy  face  smiling  at 
him  from  the  cab. 

"That  boy's  going  to  be  a  boss  engineer  one 
of  these  days,  captain,"  said  Mr.  Lee  one  lovely 
May  evening.  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Mr.  Rol- 
lins would  have  to  start  him  as  a  fireman  before 
he's  fourteen.  The  road  '11  be  glad  to  get  a  boy  as 
bright  as  Tommy.  He  can  handle  this  old  lady 
now  most  as  well  as  my  fireman  here,"  and  Hank 
patted  affectionately  the  massive  steel  connect- 
ing-rod of  his  "driving-wheels." 

But  neither  engineer,  nor  captain,  nor  Tom- 
my dreamed  how  soon,  how  very  soon,  "the 
road"  and  all  Fort  Ransom  would  devoutly 
thank  Heaven  that  Scapegrace  had  learned  rail- 
roading better  than  he  had  arithmetic. 

Leaving  only  a  small  detachment  to  guard 
the  fort.  Colonel  Wallace,  with  the  regiment, 
early  in  June,  had  marched  away  westward  from 
Ransom,  had  crossed  the  mountain  range,  and 
had  joined  a  force  of  infantry  and  cavalry 
massed  in  the  valley  of  the  Beaver,  ninety  miles 


"  SCAPEGRACE  "  153 

away.  There  they  were  to  spend  two  months  in 
manoeuvres  under  command  of  a  general  officer, 
and  there,  right  after  the  Fourth  of  July,  some 
of  the  boys  were  to  join  their  fathers  in  camp — 
Tommy  among  them. 

But  late  in  June  came  tidings  of  serious 
troubles  among  the  railway  men  at  the  East; 
then  the  news  that  a  general  strike  was  threat- 
ened, and  all  of  a  sudden  some  mysterious  order 
was  flashed  along  the  wires  even  to  Butte  and 
beyond,  and  that  day  not  another  wheel  turned 
on  the  mountain  division.  In  vain  Mr.  Rollins 
argued  and  pleaded  with  his  men.  They  hon- 
ored him — they  had  no  "grievance"  with  their 
employers — but  one  and  all  they  were  members 
of  some  one  of  the  several  railway  men's 
"Unions,"  sworn  to  obey  the  orders  of  their  re- 
spective chiefs,  even  against  those  of  their  fore- 
men or  superintendents,  and  the  firemen,  switch- 
men, and  certain  trainmen  had  received  the  sig- 
nal to  strike,  and  though  in  almost  every  case  it 
was  done  with  misgiving  and  reluctance,  strike 
they  did. 

Then  the  engineers  tried  to  run  their  engines 
with  new  hands  for  firemen,  even  in  some  cases 
tried  to  "fire"  for  themselves.    Then  committees 


154  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

came  and  warned  the  new-comers  off,  and  such 
as  would  not  obey  were  promptly  pulled  off  and 
kicked  out  of  the  yards.  The  next  who  tried 
were  stoned  and  beaten.  Then  deputy  marshals 
were  called  to  protect  the  newly  employed,  and 
then  came  riot.  It  was  bad  enough  at  Butte, 
where  the  station  and  yards  were  in  the  hands 
of  railway  men  alone,  but  it  was  infinitely  worse 
in  great  cities  to  the  east,  where  all  the  criminal 
classes,  the  mass  of  tramps,  loafers,  and  vaga- 
bonds promptly  turned  out.  The  next  thing 
known  at  Ransom  a  million  dollars'  worth  of 
railway  property  was  being  burned  and  de- 
stroyed ;  the  police  and  the  sheriffs  were  beaten, 
and  the  President  ordered  the  "regulars"  to  the 
scene. 

Never  will  the  boys  of  Fort  Ransom  forget 
the  evening  of  the  2d  of  July,  when  the  despatch 
was  received  that  Colonel  Wallace,  with  his 
eight  companies,  on  a  special  train,  had  started 
from  Beaver  Station,  and  would  pass  through 
Butte,  eastward  bound,  at  ten  o'clock  that  very 
night  if  nothing  interfered.  There  was  a  mili- 
tary telegraph  line  running  from  Ransom 
through  Bear's  Paw  Gap,  miles  north  of  the  rail- 
way, and  so  on  through  the  mountains  to  the  out- 


"  SCAPEGRACE  "  155 

lying  forts  in  the  Beaver  Valley.  That,  as  yet, 
at  leasts  the  strikers  had  not  cut;  but,  all  too  soon, 
they  learned,  through  friends  and  sympathizers 
among  the  railway  telegraphers,  that  Mr.  Rol- 
lins had  been  able  to  make  up  a  train ;  and  with 
old  No.  615  in  the  lead,  big  Ned  Weston  at  the 
throttle-valve,  two  of  Uncle  Sam's  bluecoats  for 
firemen,  and  Captain  Grace  with  six  of  his  men 
to  back  Mr.  Rollins  on  the  engine  and  tender, 
and  with  the  whole  train  bristling  with  bayonets, 
Colonel  Wallace  and  his  regiment  were  coming 
for  all  they  were  worth,  bound  to  carry  out  their 
orders  if  they  had  to  cut  their  way  through 
Butte. 

It  was  the  nervous  schoolmaster  himself  who 
rushed  out  to  the  fort,  and  drove  the  women  and 
children  wild  with  fear  and  excitement  over  the 
next  news — that  the  strikers  had  armed  them- 
selves, and  that,  with  the  hangers-on  and  the  un- 
employed about  the  town  and  the  great  array 
from  the  repair-shops,  a  thousand  determined 
men  had  gathered,  and  meant  to  assault  the 
troop  train — "if,  indeed,"  said  he,  "it  ever  gets 
as  far  as  Butte.  If  a  possible  thing,  wire  to  Sum- 
mit siding  and  warn  them."  And  wire  the 
quartermaster  did,  only  to  get  reply:  "Too  late. 


156  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

Troop  train  passed  through  at  nine  o'clock. 
Should  be  at  Butte  now." 

"Oh,  if  we  only  had  Scapegrace  with  us  now!" 
was  the  wail  of  one  poor  wife  and  mother,  "Is 
there  no  way  of  warning?  He  knew  every  bit  of 
the  track  to  the  west.  He  should  have  ridden 
out  and  done  something."  All  the  other  boys 
were  safe  at  home  within  the  fort  gates,  but  not 
since  evening  gun-fire  had  Tommy  been  seen. 
"He  took  his  pony,  ma'am,  and  galloped  away  to 
Butte  like  mad  just  before  sundown,"  was  all 
the  quatermaster  sergeant  could  tell  Aunt  'Ria, 
before  he  himself  mounted  and  rode  away  after 
the  quartermaster  in  the  vain  hope  that  it  might 
not  yet  be  too  late  to  "do  something." 

Down  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  quarter- 
master had  no  dread  of  any  serious  trouble  once 
the  troop  train  got  to  Butte.  Old  Wallace  knew 
very  well  how  to  handle  mobs,  big  or  little;  but 
that  long  stretch  of  lonely,  unprotected  track 
through  the  foot-hills  to  the  west,  that  wooden 
trestle,  that  Howe  truss-bridge  over  Four-mile 
Creek,  suppose  the  strikers  were  to  get  there 
first,  and  wreck  them  in  front  of  that  heavy  train 
thundering  down  grade.    There  was  the  rub! 

And  Scapegrace  had  not  had  his  eyes  and  ears 


\  "SCAPEGRACE"  157 

open  for  six  long  months  for  nothing.  No 
sooner  had  he  heard  the  talk  at  Ransom  of  how 
a  special  train  was  to  come  on  and  break  the 
blockade  than  he  bethought  him  of  stories  he 
had  heard  in  cab  and  caboose,  in  switchman's 
shanty  and  carsmith's  shop,  and  never  did  that 
piebald  pony  split  the  wind  as  he  did  on  Tom- 
my's dash  for  town.  Leaving  him  panting  and 
astonished  at  the  corral,  his  little  master,  well- 
nigh  breathless  himself,  made  his  rapid  way  to 
the  depot.  The  platforms  were  crowded  with 
rough,  sullen,  angry  men.  Somebody  was  mak- 
ing a  speech,  and  urging  the  crowd  to  stand  to- 
gether now,  and  sweep  the  bloody-handed  sol- 
diers from  the  face  of  the  earth  if  ever  they 
strove  to  pass  the  spot;  and  then  some  frantic, 
half-drunken  fellow  shrieked:  "They'll  never 
see  this  side  of  Four-mile  Runl"  And  Tommy, 
wild  with  anxiety,  sought  in  vain  for  some  fa- 
miliar, friendly  face,  for  some  one  to  tell  what 
had  been  done  or  advise  what  he  should  do.  All 
in  vain.  Engineers  had  been  driven  from  the 
yards  and  forbidden  to  return.  The  striking 
firemen,  appalled  most  of  them  by  the  propor- 
tions assumed  by  the  riot,  seemed  to  have  slunk 
away.    These  wild,  riotous,  half-drunken  men 


158  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

were  total  strangers.  Perhaps  it  was  lucky  that 
they  knew  him  no  better  than  he  knew  them,  or 
he  might  not  have  slipped,  trembling,  away,  as 
he  was  enabled  to  a  moment  later,  his  boy  heart 
fluttering  up  into  his  throat,  for  the  fearful 
words  he  heard  had  stricken  him  with  terror. 

'^I  tell  you  'twarn't  no  use  to  burn  the  bridge 
ahead  of  'em.  They'd  only  ford  the  creek, 
march  into  town,  and  make  up  a  train  here,  an' 
we  hadn't  the  men  to  stop  'em.  There  was  only 
just  one  thing  to  do — to  set  them  switch  signals 
^All  right,  come  ahead,'  and  wreck  the  whole 
outfit  as  it  reached  the  bridge." 

Ten  minutes  later,  his  young  heart  bounding 
like  his  pony's  hoofs.  Scapegrace  was  galloping 
westward  over  the  broad  prairie,  leaving  Butte 
a  mile  behind,  and  Ransom  farther  still  beyond. 
Already  darkness  was  settling  over  the  foot-hills 
of  the  range;  already  lights  were  popping  up 
here  and  there  from  outlying  ranch  or  farm- 
house. Behind  him  the  electric  globes  were 
gleaming  high  over  the  bustling  town,  but  Tom- 
my had  no  time  to  look  back.  Half  a  mile  to 
the  southward  he  could  see  dim  lights,  like  will- 
o'-the-wisps  dancing  along  what  he  knew  to  be 
the  railway  embankment,  and  ahead  of  him, 


"  SCAPEGRACE  "  159 

dark,  gloomy,  vague,  and  silent,  lay  the  broad 
valley  through  which  turned  and  twisted  the 
stream.  A  roaring  mountain  torrent  at  times, 
it  was  only  "bank  full"  now.  There  was  a  low 
wooden  bridge  two  hundred  yards  north  of  the 
railway  trestle;  there  was  a  good  ford  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  above  that,  but  if  by  any  chance 
these  were  guarded  by  the  strikers — and  Tom 
had  heard  how  they  held  them  long  years  before 
in  the  great  railway  strike  of  77 — then  he  and 
Dot  would  either  have  to  push  a  full  mile  farther 
up  stream  or  find  some  unguarded  point  and 
swim  for  it.  In  his  right  hand  he  carried  a 
lantern,  borrowed  at  the  corral — taken,  rather, 
without  a  by-your-leave  to  anybody — for  only  a 
Mexican  packer  was  there  as  he  unhitched  his 
pony.  In  his  pocket  were  his  matches,  and  on 
his  lips  a  prayer  for  aid  and  guidance  and  pro- 
tection. 

Beyond  all  doubt  those  twinkling  lights  far 
to  the  left  and  front  meant  that  the  strikers  were 
already  at  the  trestle  and  the  truss.  Beyond  all 
doubt  the  only  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  pass 
around  them  to  the  north,  and  speed  far  and 
fast  up  the  winding  ravines  among  the  foot-hills 
until — a  sure,  safe  distance  beyond  all  chance  of 


160  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

interference — he  could  light  his  lantern  when 
the  great  blazing  eye  of  No.  615  came  peering 
forth  from  the  black  mouth  of  the  tunnel,  and 
then  he  would  leap  on  the  track  and  signal  the 
engineer  to  stop. 

Not  three  miles  from  town,  and  already  Dot 
was  panting  and  protesting.  Not  yet  quarter 
past  nine,  but  black  darkness  was  settling  down 
over  distant  peak  and  neighboring  prairie. 

One  mile  farther  and  he  would  reach  the 
bridge,  but  long  before  coming  to  the  stream  he 
must  pull  up  and  go  cautiously  and  listen.  How 
dreadfully  near  those  dim,  wicked  lights  looked 
at  the  southwest — away  down  in  the  lowlands! 
Something  told  him  what  they  meant.  All  that 
ground  was  overflowed  in  the  spring.  The  truss- 
bridge  and  the  trestle  carried  the  track  along 
full  twenty  feet  above  the  July  level  of  the 
stream,  and,  just  as  they  said  at  the  depot,  these 
villians  out  here  were  sawing  slanting  cuts 
through  the  sturdy  beams — the  uprights  of  the 
trestle — and  the  weight  of  the  massive  engine 
would  do  the  rest.  On,  Dot! — on!  Even  now 
old  615  must  be  roaring  through  the  rock  cuts 
east  of  Summit.  Tommy  could  even  seem  to 
see  his  friend  the  engineer  standing  there  with 


"SCAPEGRACE"  161 

firm-set  face  staring  straight  ahead  through  the 
cab  window,  his  right  hand  on  the  reversing- 
lever,  his  left  on  the  air-brake  cock,  the  throttle- 
valve  shut  tight,  and  not  an  ounce  of  steam  on, 
for  with  smoking  wheels  the  great  train  was 
shooting  curve  after  curve  down  the  east  face 
of  the  grand  mountain  spur,  held  back  from 
headlong  rush  to  destruction  only  by  the  grip 
of  the  brakes  on  the  polished  steel  of  the  tires. 
And  soon  they  would  plunge  into  the  tunnel 
through  Ute  Tower,  and  then  come  sweeping 
forth  in  long,  graceful  curve  around  Red  Bluffs, 
and  then,  then  Ned's  left  would  shift  from  air- 
brake to  throttle,  and  one  would  close  and  the 
other  open,  and  615  would  begin  again  to  throb 
and  puff  and  pant,  and,  with  unhampered 
wheels,  the  long  train  would  leap  to  the  race 
once  more,  with  Four-mile  Creek  and  switch 
and  siding,  and  beyond  them  the  big  truss  and 
trestle  only  two  level  miles  ahead. 

Heavens!  Here  was  Four-mile  Creek  now, 
foaming  along  almost  parallel  with  his  road, 
and  there,  not  two  hundred  yards  ahead,  lay  the 
low  uncovered  wooden  bridge  over  which  he 
must  pass  unseen,  or  else  ford  or  swim.  Many 
a  time,  with  exultant  heart,  high  aloft,  had  he 


162  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

gone  skimming  over  that  dimly  outlined  trestle 
and  under  that  net-work  of  beams  and  stringers 
just  visible  against  the  southern  stars.  Many  a 
time  had  he  and  Dot  ridden  over  the  humble 
crossing  that  seemed  to  span  only  from  rock  to 
rock — a  fragile  bridge  that  was  swept  away 
every  spring,  only  to  be  gathered  up  and  put  to- 
gether by  the  ranchmen  every  June,  but  on  the 
trestle  twinkled  wreckers'  lights.  On  the  low 
bridge  ahead  gleamed  a  lantern  that  told  him 
the  enemy  was  there.  Dot  almost  slid  upon  his 
haunches  in  astonishment  at  the  sudden  check, 
and  then  whirled  madly  about  in  answer  to  his 
rider's  driving  heel  and  tugging  rein.  Spring- 
ing up  from  the  roadside  a  few  yards  ahead,  a 
dark  form  loomed  suddenly  into  sight,  and  a 
hoarse  voice  shouted :  "Who's  that?" 

But  Scapegrace  never  stopped  to  answer. 
With  his  head  turned  homeward  Dot  took  new 
heart,  and  flew  back  along  the  lonely  road  full 
three  hundred  yards  before  he  felt  the  pressure 
of  leg  and  rein  that  turned  him  northward.  In- 
dignantly he  shook  his  mane,  but  obediently 
sped  away.  Over  the  springy  bunch-grass  he 
was  laboring  now,  panting  hard,  and  wonder- 
ing what  on  earth  could  make  his  little  master 


"  SCAPEGRACE  "  163 

SO  unmerciful,  and  presently  there  were  sounds 
as  of  distant  shouting,  at  which  Tommy  urged 
the  more,  and  bent  low  over  the  pommel,  and 
then  Dot  found  himself  circling  westward  again, 
but  far  above  the  point  where  first  they  reached 
the  bank  of  the  stream,  and  soon  he  heard  it  roar- 
ing over  its  rocky  bed  and  straight  ahead  of 
them.  Another  moment  and  he  would  have 
swerved,  for  here  they  were  upon  the  very  verge, 
but  both  Tommy's  heels  came  driving  hard 
against  his  astonished  ribs,  and  Tommy's  knees 
were  gripping  him  like  a  living  vise.  One  in- 
stant he  faltered  at  the  brink  and  then  plunged 
helplessly  in,  yielding  to  the  master  hand  and 
will.  ''On,  Dot! — on!"  was  Tommy's  constant 
cry.  And  so,  stumbling,  plunging,  going  down 
once  on  his  knees,  and  burying  his  nose  deep  in, 
the  gallant  piebald  obeyed,  and  at  last,  with 
dripping  flanks,  clambered  safely  out  on  the 
westward  side.  One  short  minute  for  a  breath- 
ing spell,  then  on  they  went  again.  Four  min- 
utes more,  and  the  dim  lights  at  the  bridge,  half 
a  mile  to  the  south,  were  square  to  the  left;  six 
minutes,  and  they  were  well  behind;  ten  min- 
utes, and  Tom  and  Dot,  wearily,  heavily  now, 
were  lumbering  up  a  long  ravine,  dark  and 


164  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

drear  and  lonely,  but  the  brave  heart  of  the  lit- 
tle fellow  never  faltered;  he  v^ould  reach  that 
level  mile  over  the  ^^bench"  in  front  of  Red 
Bluff,  and  stop  the  headlong  rush  of  old  615, 
no  matter  what  lying  switch  lights  might  say,  no 
matter  what  drink-maddened  strikers  might  do. 

Already  he  was  drawing  near  the  track  again. 
Glancing  over  his  left  shoulder  he  could  see  that 
only  one  light  was  gleaming  now  near  the  bridge 
— the  faint  green  disk  at  the  switch.  Their 
cowardly  work  complete,  the  gang  had  doused 
their  lanterns,  and  now  were  lurking  in  the 
shadows  well  away,  yet  lingering,  fascinated,  to 
watch  the  result.  On,  Dot! — on/  It  must  be 
that  the  train  is  near.  Scapegrace  strained  his 
ears  to  listen,  but  Dot's  panting  drowned  all 
other  sounds.  At  last,  just  ahead  now,  dimly 
seen  against  the  southern  sky,  a  straight  lance- 
like staff  stood  pointing  to  the  zenith — a  tele- 
graph pole,  and  there,  farther  east,  another. 
The  track  at  last — at  last!  and  not  an  instant  too 
soon.  Even  as  he  prodded  Dot  to  one  last  ef- 
fort, far  to  the  west,  among  the  hills,  a  dull  roar 
as  of  distant  thunder  fell  upon  his  ears.  The 
train!  the  train!  already  at  the  Tower  Tunnel. 

In  mad  haste  now  he  threw  himself  from  the 


"SCAPEGRACE"  165 

saddle,  leaving  Dot  with  bowed  head  and  heav- 
ing flanks  to  look  after  himself.  In  mad  haste 
he  scrambled  up  the  low  embankment,  grasping 
his  precious  lantern.  In  mad  haste  he  fumbled 
for  his  matches,  thanking  God  with  all  his 
boyish  heart  that  the  night  wind  had  not  risen. 
Another  minute,  and  crack!  a  bright  flame  shot 
from  the  iron  rail — another,  and  a  feeble  glim- 
mer sprang  from  the  wick.  Another,  and  with 
increasing  roar  and  rumble  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  seemed  to  open  slowly  half  a  mile  to  the 
west,  and  a  white  light,  growing  every  instant 
brighter  and  broader,  came  streaming  around 
the  base  of  Red  Bluff,  and  then  a  brilliant  gleam- 
ing eye  seemed  suddenly  to  focus  on  the  track. 
Two  threads  of  glistening  steel,  nearly  five  feet 
apart  where  he  stood,  seemed  to  meet  almost 
immediately  under  it;  the  rails  began  to  creep 
and  quiver,  the  ground  to  tremble,  and  with  his 
little  heart  away  up  in  his  throat  Tommy  lifted 
high  his  lantern — high  as  he  could  reach — then 
lowered  and  raised  —  lowered  and  raised, 
straight  up  and  down  —  square  in  the  middle 
of  the  track,  and,  bearing  down  on  him  at  full 
speed,  his  mighty  engine  throbbing  under  him 
instinct  with  life,  big  Ned  Weston,  peering 


166  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

from  his  cab  window  just  as  Tommy  pictured 
him,  saw  and  understood.  Shriek  went  the 
whistle,  slap  went  the  throttle-valve  flat  against 
the  boiler,  snap  went  the  air-brake,  every  clamp 
gripping  its  wheel  on  the  instant  like  a  vise. 
Out  from  the  'scape-valve,  with  mighty  hiss  and 
roar,  rushed  the  pent-up  steam,  and  all  of  a  sud- 
den the  big  train  began  to  bump  and  grind  along 
the  rails.  Black  heads  popped  out  of  the  open 
windows,  and  little  by  little  old  61S's  flying 
wheels  slowed  down  and  came  to  a  stand,  and 
Ned  Weston's  foremost  guards  springing  from 
the  pilot,  ran  ahead,  a  tall  captain  bounding 
after  them,  and  a  little  freckle-faced,  breathless 
boy  stumbled  forward  into  their  arms,  sobbing 
out:  "The  bridge." 

Four  hours  later,  in  another  train,  without  a 
man  injured  or  missing.  Colonel  Wallace  and 
his  command  pushed  ahead  from  Butte.  Mean- 
time, however,  they  had  marched  into  town  wth 
half  a  dozen  prisoners,  picked  up  near  the  ruined 
trestle,  had  hammered  some  riotous  heads  rather 
hard,  and  had  had  a  chance  to  tell  to  many  a 
wife  and  mother  who  had  hurried  into  town  for 
one  glimpse  of  her  own  particular  soldier  the 


"  SCAPEGRACE  "  167 

Story  of  their  escape.  ^'Goodness  gracious!" 
said  Fort  Ransom,  "who  would  have  thought  of 
that  in  Scapegrace?" 

But  it  was  the  old  colonel  who  picked  the  lit- 
tle fellow  up  and  held  him  close  to  his  heart  one 
minute  before  they  started  on  again,  then,  with 
glistening  eyes,  returned  him  to  his  silent  father, 
and  grasped  the  latter's  hand.  ^'Say,  rather, 
who  would  have  thought  of  that  but  Scape- 
grace !"  was  the  way  old  Wallace  put  it. 


THE   SURRENDER  OF   COCHISE 
A  Gallant  Messenger  of  Peace 

T  WAS  about  to  tell  General  S.  S.  Sumner  a 
"^  story  about  a  brave  boy  who  became  war 
chief  of  the  Crow  Indians,  when  he  told  me  a 
more  interesting  tale.  We  were  talking  about 
courage  and  gallant  men,  and  General  Sumner 
said  that  a  very  brave  Indian  once  told  him  that 
General  O.  O.  Howard  was  the  bravest  man  he 
ever  saw. 

The  circumstances  were  these.  Down  in  Ari- 
zona and  in  New  Mexico,  in  1872,  the  terrible 
Apache  Indians  had  been  committing  frequent 
and  bloody  crimes,  robbing  and  murdering 
white  settlers,  and  fighting  our  soldiers.  One 
band  of  these  unruly  redskins  was,  at  the  time 
of  this  story,  hidden  away  in  the  Dragoon 
Mountains,  under  the  command  of  a  fierce  and 
stalwart  chief  named  Cochise.  General  How- 
ard was  in  that  corner  of  our  country  on  an 

168 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  COCHISE  169 

errand  of  peace!  He  was  visiting  the  various 
savage  tribes,  and  trying  to  reason  with  their 
chiefs,  in  order  that  they  could  be  brought  to 
see  that  it  would  be  better  for  them  to  stop  fight- 
ing and  go  on  reservations.  That  seems  a 
strange  errand  for  a  soldier,  and  especially  for 
such  a  valiant  fighter  as  General  Howard,  who, 
before  that,  had  lost  an  arm  for  his  country,  and 
won  fame  on  more  than  one  battle-field. 

Strange  as  it  was,  that  was  what  General 
Howard  was  doing — going  from  tribe  to  tribe 
in  plain  citizen's  clothes,  and  trying  to  reason 
with  the  wildest  Indians  on  the  continent.  A 
motley  crowd  followed  him,  and  he  brought  to- 
gether husbands  and  wives  and  children,  who 
had  been  separated  in  the  fighting  and  retreating 
and  chasing  of  the  Indians  by  the  troops.  He 
was  kind  and  gentle,  and  was  beloved  by  those 
who  came  in  his  way.  And  he  had  a  great  deal 
of  success  in  quieting  some  tribes  and  putting 
them  on  reservations  where  they  might  live 
peacefully. 

It  was  said  to  be  impossible  to  find  the  great 
chief  Cochise,  who  was  hidden  away  in  the 
mountains.  To  tell  the  truth,  nobody  else  had 
any  desire  to  see  him,  for  he  was  notorious  as  a 


170  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

fierce  foe  of  the  white  people,  a  turbulent  leader 
of  a  murderous  band  of  "Apache  devils,"  as  his 
Indians  were  well  called.  It  was  not  only  hard 
to  see  Cochise,  but  it  was  as  much  as  any  white 
man's  life  was  worth  to  be  seen  by  him.  He  had 
been  massacring  the  settlers,  and  was  hiding 
from  the  punishment  he  deserved,  and  getting 
ready  to  make  more  mischief.  But  General 
Howard  wished  particularly  to  meet  him,  and 
when  he  heard  that  a  man  named  Jefferds  knew 
the  way  to  Cochise's  hiding-place,  the  general 
employed  the  man  to  take  him  there. 

Jefferds  was  a  man  who  served  as  a  guide  and 
as  a  scout  for  our  soldiers,  and  knew  that  coun- 
try well.  He  agreed  to  take  the  general,  and 
off  they  went  across  mountains  and  plains  and 
other  mountains,  and  finally  to  a  third  range 
called  the  Dragoon  Mountains.  When  they 
neared  the  desperate  Indian's  hiding-place, 
Jefferds  said  that  the  general  had  too  many  peo- 
ple in  his  train ;  for  a  lot  of  Indians  were  troop- 
ing along  with  the  white  men  to  join  their  tribes, 
and  some  were  squaws  and  children  belonging 
to  Cochise's  band.  Jefferds  said  that  if  Cochise 
saw  so  many  people  he  would  fight  them.  The 
general  asked  how  many  it  would  do  to  go  with, 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  COCHISE  171 

and  yet  not  alarm  the  suspicious  chief.  Finally, 
it  was  agreed  that  the  general,  his  companion. 
Captain  Joseph  A.  Sladen,  Jefferds,  and  two 
Indians,  making  five  in  all,  should  form  the 
party.  The  others  were  then  left  behind,  and 
the  five  rode  on — to  death,  as  some  of  them 
thought. 

Captain  Sladen  asked  the  general  if  he  did 
not  realize  his  danger.  He  asked  whether  the 
general  was  not  aware  that  he  was  almost  certain 
to  be  killed.  General  Howard  replied  by  quot- 
ing the  Bible.  He  recited  a  verse  which  says 
that  if  we  lose  a  life  for  our  Saviour's  sake,  we 
shall  have  an  eternal  life  given  to  us.  Captain 
Sladen  rode  on  in  silence.  It  seemed  wonderful 
that  General  Howard  should  ride  straight  into 
that  Indian  trap,  where  Indians  were  hidden 
behind  the  rocks,  and  where  a  white  man's  life 
was  not  worth  a  fig.  And  yet  he  wore  no  uni- 
form,  and  carried  no  weapon  except  a  tiny  pen- 
knife. 

Straight  into  Cochise's  stronghold  went  the 
general  and  his  men.  It  was  a  fort  made  by 
nature:  a  place  of  forty  acres  in  extent,  walled 
all  around  by  great  rocks,  and  with  only  one 
opening  in  the  wall  for  any  one  to  get  in  or  out. 


172  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

There  were  hundreds  of  Apaches  in  there — at 
least  three  hundred,  if  I  remember  rightly. 
They  all  surrounded  the  white  men,  who  were 
made  to  understand  that  they  were  prisoners. 
Worse  yet,  they  were  told  that  Cochise  was  go- 
ing to  make  up  his  mind  during  the  day  whether 
to  kill  them  or  no.  Cochise  did  not  show  him- 
self. The  general  and  his  companions  had  all 
that  day  and  all  that  night  in  which  to  think  of 
what  they  had  done,  and  what  were  their  chances 
of  ever  seeing  their  homes  again.  Escape  was 
utterly  impossible.  At  night  they  spread 
blankets  on  the  ground  under  some  trees  and 
slept.  How  many  of  those  who  read  this  would 
have  slept  that  night  under  those  circumstances? 
But  these  men  got  a  good  night's  rest. 

On  the  next  day  Cochise  made  his  appear- 
ance. He  heard  through  an  interpreter  who 
General  Howard  was,  and  that  he  came  to  make 
peace. 

'^I  want  peace  myself,"  said  Cochise.  The 
tall,  muscular  Indian  spoke  only  Spanish  and 
Apache.  He  was  a  very  large,  fine-looking 
man,  and  seemed  a  giant  among  the  Apaches. 

^^If  you  want  peace,"  said  General  Howard, 
"we  can  soon  arrange  it."    He  talked  no  non- 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  COCHISE  173 

sense  about  "the  Great  White  Father  at  Wash- 
ington." He  simply  said :  "There  are  two  par- 
ties of  white  men.  One  is  now  in  power.  That 
party  wants  peace  with  the  Indians.  The  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States  sent  me  to  see  you." 

When  it  was  agreed  that  Cochise  and  his 
warriors  and  squaws  should  go  down  from  the 
mountains  and  live  upon  a  reservation  which 
the  general  agreed  to  give  them,  near  Apache 
Pass,  the  wily  chief  shook  his  head. 

"When  I  go  with  you  the  soldiers  will  shoot 
my  people,"  he  said. 

"But  I  will  order  them  not  to,"  said  General 
Howard.    "I  will  send  Captain  Sladen." 

"They  will  not  care  what  he  says,"  said  the 
chief,  "but  they  will  obey  you.  You  go  and 
order  them  to  leave  us  alone.  Leave  Captain 
Sladen  here.  My  women  will  take  good  care  of 
him." 

So  the  general  went  and  left  the  captain  in 
that  terrible  trap.  Then  it  was  that  the  general 
saw  General  Sumner,  then  lieutenant-colonel, 
and  arranged  for  a  meeting  between  Cochise  and 
the  officers  in  command  of  the  troops  that  were 
stationed  out  there.  Even  then  Colonel  Sumner 
doubted  the  intentions  of  Cochise.   The  Apaches 


174  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

are  a  treacherous  lot,  and  have  not  taught  the 
white  men  to  trust  them.  Colonel  Sumner 
would  not  have  been  surprised  if  the  redmen 
had  massacred  all  the  officers  when  they  had  a 
chance.  But  the  colonel  admits  that  General 
Howard  seemed  unconscious  of  any  danger.  He 
was  honestly  trying  to  bring  about  peace,  and  he 
seemed  to  think  of  nothing  but  peace.  In  this 
case  his  faith  was  justified,  for  Cochise  went 
upon  a  reservation,  and  remained  "a  good  In- 
dian" until  he  died,  but  many  another  man  who 
has  trusted  other  Apaches  has  died  for  doing  so. 

Cochise  had  a  wise  head  on  his  shoulders.  "I 
notice,"  he  said,  "the  more  white  men  I  kill,  the 
faster  they  come,  and  the  more  there  are  of  them. 
It  is  no  use  to  fight  them.  I  will  do  as  they  tell 
me." 

Long  afterwards  he  told  Colonel  Sumner  how 
surprised  he  was  to  see  General  Howard  ride 
into  his  stronghold.  "Me  think  I  am  a  brave 
man,"  he  said,  "but  General  Howard  the  brav- 
est man  me  ever  saw." 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  reader  should  ever 
ask  the  general  about  his  adventures,  he  would 
smile  and  say : 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  COCHISE  175 

"Oh,  I  knew  Cochise  was  not  going  to  kill 
men  when  I  hunted  him  out.  The  little  children 
came  and  lay  on  my  blanket,  and  played  around 
me  when  I  was  a  prisoner  there.  They  would 
not  have  been  allowed  to  do  so  if  I  was  to  have 
been  killed." 


WITH  CAPRON  AT  EL  CANEY 

A  Day  of  Real  Battle 

(\^  the  night  of  June  31,  1898,  I  lay  down 
^^  to  sleep  with  the  very  comfortable  feeling 
that  my  hopes,  cherished  through  many  tedious 
days  of  hardship,  were  at  last  to  be  realized. 
For  my  blanket  was  spread,  along  with  the 
blanket  of  another  long-suffering  correspondent, 
on  a  knob  of  a  hill  overlooking  El  Caney,  a 
small  village  in  southeastern  Cuba,  and  we  all 
knew  that  El  Caney  was  to  be  stormed  by  our 
troops  in  the  morning.  The  prospect  of  seeing 
a  battle  was  enough  to  make  up  for  all  the  diffi- 
culties and  privations,  necessary  or  unnecessary, 
which  we  had  endured,  and  we  were  not  dis- 
comforted even  by  the  thought  of  stray  bullets, 
which  often  find  correspondents  as  satisfactory 
billets  as  they  do  soldiers.  We  dreamed  of  our 
names  in  heroic  head-lines  in  the  daily  papers, 
of  deeds  of  might  and  valor,  of  captured  stand- 

176 


WITH   CAPRON  AT  EL  CANEY  177 

ards,  of  flying  Spanish  soldiers — and  we  were 
quite  happy.  We  changed  our  opinion,  later, 
by  the  way,  about  those  "flying  Spanish  sol- 
diers."* 

The  hill  upon  which  we  were  bivouacked  was 
to  be  occupied  by  Captain  Capron's  battery  of 
field-artillery,  according  to  the  plans  for  the  ac- 
tion of  the  morrow.  It  is  about  a  mile  and  a 
half  to  the  south  of  the  village.  The  guns  had 
not  yet  been  put  in  position,  but  they  were  con- 
cealed in  some  woods,  just  beyond  the  brow  of 
the  hill.  We  could  hear  the  horses  every  now 
and  then  crackling  the  twigs  of  the  underbrush 

*Brigadier-General  Vara  del  Rey,  the  Spanish  general  in  com- 
mand at  El  Caney,  offered  the  most  stubborn  resistance  which 
the  Americans  encountered  in  the  whole  Santiago  campaign.  His 
force  of  only  a  little  over  500  men  held  their  ground  almost 
all  day,  and  the  Americans  killed  and  wounded  numbered  438. 
General  Lawton's  total  force  in  the  afternoon  was  226  officers 
and  4913  men.  The  Spaniards  had  been  told  by  their  officers  that 
the  Americans  would  give  no  quarter.  In  spite  of  some  aid 
from  the  gallant  Captain  Capron's  small  field-battery,  this  en- 
gagement was  practically  an  attack  by  infantry  upon  a  strongly 
fortified,  well-armed  enemy,  which  is  always  costly.  Of  the 
Spanish  force  it  is  estimated  that  not  over  forty  escaped.  The 
others  were  killed,  wounded,  or  taken  prisoners.  General  del 
Rey  was  shot  while  rallying  his  men  in  the  streets  of  the  village  of 
El  Caney.  a  short  distance  behind  the  fort.  No  more  gallant  of- 
ficer fought  on  the  Spanish  side,  and  if  he  had  been  in  supreme 
command  at  Santiago  our  victory  would  have  been  more  diffi- 
cult. A  superb  eighteenth-century  bronze  cannon  has  been 
mounted  on  a  high  pedestal  within  the  battered  walls  of  the 
stone  fort  at  El  Caney  as  a  memorial  of  the  action  and  a  monu- 
ment to  the  dead. — ^Editor. 


178  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

as  they  lay  down  to  rest.  Indeed,  this  was  al- 
most the  only  sound  which  broke  the  stillness 
of  the  night.  In  cautious  silence  Captain  Ca- 
pron,  his  lieutenants,  my  companion,  and  I  ate 
our  cold  hardtack  and  bacon — fires  had  been  for- 
bidden— and  turned  in  for  sleep,  after  sentinels 
had  been  carefully  posted  to  guard  against  sur- 
prise by  Spanish  scouting  parties.  Every  pre- 
caution was  observed  to  prevent  the  enemy  from 
obtaining  a  knowledge  of  our  whereabouts. 

For  protection  from  the  heavy  tropical  dew 
we  had  spread  our  blankets  under  the  boughs  of 
a  gigantic  mango-tree.  Sleeping  under  a  man- 
go-tree is  like  sleeping  on  a  bed  of  tennis-balls. 
But  we  were  too  worn  out  to  make  much  of  an 
effort  to  clear  the  ground  of  the  fruit  which 
thickly  covered  it,  and  having  done  our  best  to 
adjust  our  bodies  to  the  situation,  we  were  just 
dozing  off  to  sleep  when  the  land-crabs  arrived 
on  the  scene.  With  these  pleasant  creatures  we 
were  forced  to  fight  a  pitched  battle  in  order  to 
drive  them  away,  and  as  my  eyes  were  finally 
closing  for  the  night  I  heard  what  was  evidently 
a  brisk  skirmish  with  the  land-crabs  going  on 
where  the  privates  were  dreaming — or  trying  to. 

It  may  have  been  hard  to  get  to  sleep  that 


WITH   CAPRON  AT  EL  CANEY  179 

night,  but  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  wake  up  the 
next  morning.  At  the  very  first  glimmering  of 
dawn  the  camp  is  all  astir.  The  privates  roll 
and  stow  away  the  blankets  and  equipment,  and 
the  guns  are  slowly  wheeled  into  position.  Am- 
munition-boxes are  made  ready  and  unscrewed. 
OlfBcers  set  to  work  with  delicate  range- 
finders,  determining  and  recording  the  ranges 
of  various  landmarks  along  the  lines  to  be 
attacked.  A  squad  of  men  goes  out  in  front, 
cutting  away  the  shrubs  and  small  trees  which 
might  obstruct  or  confuse  our  fire.  As  the  sun 
gets  up,  the  older  hands  in  command  begin  to 
roll  up  sleeves  and  *^lighten  ship."  To  our  rear 
we  can  see  the  columns  of  the  First  Regular 
Infantry  taking  up  their  position  to  act  as  our 
support  in  case  of  need.  Clearly,  this  battery 
is  intended  to  do  business. 

As  the  light  grows,  we  look  curiously  at  the 
country  to  the  north.  The  little  town,  with  its 
small,  white  block-house,  looks  almost  patheti- 
cally helpless  when  we  consider  that  it  is  sur- 
rounded by  nearly  5000  men.  Occassionally  one 
can  catch  glimpses  of  soldiers  among  the  houses 
and  about  the  block-house,  but,  for  the  most  part, 
there  are  no  signs  of  life  there  whatever.    To 


180  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

the  right  and  left  our  troops  are  stringing  out 
through  the  woods.  The  various  regiments  take 
their  positions  without  confusion  or  delay.  Gen- 
eral Lawton  knows  what  he  is  going  to  do,  and 
how  he  is  going  to  do  it.  And  he  is  too  old  and 
too  good  a  fighter  to  go  into  action  without  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  his  fighting-ground. 
About  the  only  reconnoitring  done  at  all  in  the 
Santiago  campaign  was  done  around  El  Caney 
— and  done  by  General  Lawton  himself. 

As  a  vantage-point  of  observation,  the  hill 
on  which  we  stood  could  not  have  been  better 
chosen,  affording  a  clear  view  of  the  valley  in 
front  and  of  the  sweep  of  rising  ground  on  either 
side.  "The  play  is  going  to  begin,"  said  another 
correspondent  to  me,  "and  we've  got  front-row 
seats  in  the  gallery."  Besides  being  in  the  gal- 
lery, we  were  posted  next  to  the  man  who  was 
about  to  ring  the  bell  to  raise  the  curtain ;  for  it 
had  been  ordered  that  the  first  gun  from  Captain 
Capron's  battery  was  to  be  the  signal  for  the 
battle  to  begin. 

The  men  around  the  cannon  are  standing  at 
attention ;  every  piece  has  been  shotted,  and  we 
all  are  in  a  quiver  of  expectation.  Then  the 
command    rings   out:    "Number   three,   make 


WITH  CAPRON  AT  EL  CANEY  181 

ready!  Fire!"  The  gun  boomed  in  response, 
our  first  shell  whistled  its  way  towards  the 
block-house,  and  a  roll  of  smoke  from  our  anti- 
quated black  powder  drifted  through  the  trees. 
Captain  Capron  has  called  "Time!"  and  the 
game  has  commenced. 

Now  our  infantry  begins  firing  all  along  the 
line.  The  musketry  fire  sounds  like  a  half- 
dozen  gigantic  corn-poppers.  There  is  no  ad- 
vance apparent  from  our  gallery — no  inspiring 
charges,  such  as  we  had  read  about.  The 
Spaniards,  from  behind  the  stone  walls  of  El 
Caney,  are  keeping  up  a  rattling,  spitting  fire. 
All  of  Capron's  guns  are  now  in  operation,  and 
the  sulphurous,  thick  smoke  hangs  about  us  so 
that  we  can  scarcely  see.  Some  one  says  that 
a  shell  has  exploded  inside  the  block-house,  and 
we  cheer  at  this,  and  hope  for  a  breeze  to  blow 
away  the  smoke  so  that  we  can  make  out  what 
has  been  done.  About  ten  o'clock  the  wounded 
begin  to  come  back  from  the  firing-line — limp, 
sagging,  swaying  figures,  struggling  to  the  sur- 
geons. "It's  hot  down  there,"  shouts  one  man, 
whom  two  others  are  carrying;  "all-fired  hot, 
and  there  ain't  no  Spanish  runnin'  yet,  either." 

By  this  time  we  had  pretty  well  filled  the 


182  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

block-house  with  holes,  and  Captain  Capron 
gave  orders  to  train  the  guns  on  the  houses  in 
the  village.  Each  one  of  these  houses  was  a 
miniature  fort,  and  it  would  have  been  impos- 
isble,  without  great  loss,  to  have  taken  El  Caney 
by  assault  until  most  of  these  houses  had  been 
battered  down  by  our  shells.  So  the  gunners 
changed  their  aim,  and  the  red  tiles  began  to  fly 
from  the  roofs. 

It  was  nearly  noon.  The  Spanish  fire  was 
as  brisk  and  determined  as  ever,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  the  crumbling  block-house,  noth- 
ing had  been  apparently  done  to  weaken  it.  We 
found  out  afterwards  that  we  should  have  taken 
El  Caney  in  one  hour,  according  to  headquar- 
ters' calculations. 

But  now  through  the  tall,  thick,  hot  grass  in 
the  valley  we  can  see  lines  of  men  crawling 
slowly  towards  the  village.  'Our  firing-line  is 
closing  in ;  but  it  is  an  advance  so  different  from 
the  charges  and  rushes  we  have  had  pictured  for 
us  in  war  histories  that  we  in  the  gallery  hardly 
realize  what  is  going  on.  Most  of  the  time  our 
men  seem  merely  to  be  wriggling  on  the  ground. 
Sometimes  a  squad  stands  up,  makes  a  dash  at 
a  little  rise  of  ground  where  there  is  thicker 


WITH  CAPRON  AT  EL  CANEY  183 

tover,  and  we  have  just  time  to  feel  the  thrill  of 
ra  charge,  when  they  drop  again  out  of  sight  in 
•  the  brush.  But  all  the  time  they  are  going  for- 
ward, and  all  the  time  the  remorseless  crackle  of 
rifles  is  kept  up  without  intermission. 

It  was  easy  to  tell  the  whereabouts  of  the  Sec- 
ond Massachusetts,  both  on  account  of  the 
peculiar  thick  report  which  their  old-fashioned 
rifles  made,  and  because  of  the  white  smoke  that 
rose  after  every  volley.  An  old  private  in  the 
Twenty-fourth  (colored)  Infantry  said  of  the 
Massachusetts  militia:  "Yes,  sah,  they're  sure 
'nough  nervy,  but  I  ruther  have  a  lot  o'  snow- 
balls than  them  old  muskets.  It's  murder  to 
send  them  boys  out  those — jes  murder." 

And  now  the  creeping  blue  lines  have  such  a 
close  grip  on  the  yellow  town  that  orders  come  to 
Capron  to  "cease  firing,"  lest  a  "tumbler"  drop 
in  a  company  of  our  own  men.  One  regiment, 
:we  can  see,  is  within  two  hundred  yards  of  the 
block-house.  The  soldiers  are  wading  through 
the  grass  as  if  in  deep  water  against  a  current, 
with  bent  bodies  and  out-stretched  arms.  El 
Caney  and  the  Spanish  pits  about  it  flash  and 
snap  with  rifle  fire.  How  slowly  our  men  go! 
They  seem  almost  to  be  standing  still ;  and  yet 


184  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

the  distance  is  growing  less.  Another  regiment 
comes  to  their  support.  The  crawling,  crouching 
van  is  stopped  by  a  fence — one  of  the  barbed- 
wire  devices  of  the  Spaniards.  Here  they  seem 
to  halt  for  hours — really  it  is  only  a  few  seconds 
— and  then  we  hear  a  faint,  a  very  faint,  cheer- 
ing, and  they  break  into  a  run  up  the  steep  slope 
and  swarm  up  over  the  block-house,  and  we  have 
planted  our  flag  in  the  snarling,  fiery  little 
village ! 

In  the  mean  time  Capron's  battery  had  been 
ordered  to  a  new  position,  but  before  well  es- 
tablished there  the  town  was  ours,  and  my  first 
battle  was  over.  We  had  seen  all  that  there  was 
to  see,  and  had  experienced,  to  some  extent,  all 
the  trials  of  warfare.  During  the  last  movement 
of  the  battery  we  had  been  under  fire,  and  had 
been  through  a  corner  of  the  infantry  battle- 
field where  the  dead  and  wounded  were  lying 
in  pitiful  plenty.  And  yet  our  real  troubles  were 
only  beginning.  A  courier  had  come  from  El 
Pozo,  and  had  told  of  the  bloody  confusion  at 
San  Juan,  and  of  the  urgent  need  of  re-enforce- 
ments and  of  artillery. 

Tired  and  worn  out  as  we  were,  having  fought 
all  day  and  slept  but  little  the  night  before,  we 


WITH   CAPRON  AT  EL  CANEY  185 

set  out  in  the  afternoon  upon  the  Santiago  road. 
The  First  Infantry,  in  columns  of  fours,  was  at 
the  head,  and  behind  them  came  Capron's  bat- 
tery. The  long  line  made  an  impressive  sight 
against  the  background  of  deep  green  foliage. 
I  remember  particularly  the  picture  of  the  men 
silhouetted  against  the  sky  when  they  were 
crossing  an  old  stone  bridge  which  spanned  a 
sluggish  stream  in  the  valley.  But  I  doubt  if 
the  picture  made  such  an  impression  on  me  at  the 
time  as  did  the  water  of  the  brook,  muddy  and 
warm  though  it  was.  It  was  the  first  water  we 
had  drunk  all  day,  and  the  weary,  thirsty  men 
tumbled  over  one  another  in  their  eagerness  to 
fill  their  canteens. 

At  eight  o'clock  a  halt  was  made,  and  the  men 
lit  fires  along  the  roadside  to  cook  the  first  meal 
they  had  made  since  morning.  But  it  was  not 
much  of  a  supper.  We  were  all  more  or  less 
uneasy,  as  nobody  seemed  to  know  where  we 
were  going  or  where  the  enemy  was.  Every 
now  and  then  the  most  alarming  rumors  would 
be  passed  down  the  road — that  General  Lawton 
had  been  shot,  that  the  Spaniards  had  beaten 
our  men  at  San  Juan,  or  that  our  bivouac  along 
the  roadside  was  covered  by  a  battery  of  Spanish 


186  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

machine-guns  on  the  slopes  above.  The  men 
with  the  battery  tried  to  sleep,  wrapping  them- 
selves in  blankets,  but  although  we  did  our  best 
and  were  nearly  worn  out  with  fatigue,  it  was 
quite  impossible. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  that  an 
aide  came  galloping  by  with  orders  for  the  com- 
mand to  go  back  on  the  road  over  which  we  had 
plodded  so  laboriously  the  day  before,  and 
>vhich  now  turned  out,  it  was  said,  to  lead 
squarely  into  the  face  of  a  Spanish  battery.  So, 
in  the  damp  darkness,  we  wearily  retraced  our 
steps.  It  was  very  dismal  business.  The  road 
was  slippery  wth  mud.  Men  and  horses  were 
completely  fagged.  Many  had  not  slept  for 
forty-eight  hours.  We  had  been  through  what 
to  most  of  us  was  our  first  battle ;  all  were  hungry 
and  exhausted. 

Our  countermarch  was  thus  made.  At  day- 
break rations  were  distributed,  and  the  men  were 
given  a  much-needed  rest  while  breakfast  was 
cooking.  Then  new  orders  were  issued,  and 
once  more  we  fell  in  and  marched  towards  the 
west,  upon  the  right  road  at  last  for  El  Pozo, 
San  Juan,  and — Santiago. 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL 

A  Prisoner  and  a  Rescue 

I 

"^r  EAR  midnight  of  a  late  October  day,  many 
-^^  years  ago,  a  lieutenant  of  infantry  was  sit- 
ting by  a  camp-table  in  his  quarters  at  Fort 
Whipple,  Arizona,  reading  a  magazine.  The 
walls  of  the  room  were  formed  of  vertical  pine 
logs,  and  the  floor  and  ceiling  of  pine  planks, 
all,  logs  and  planks,  lending  a  piny  flavor  to  the 
room's  atmosphere. 

The  mail  from  the  Pacific  coast,  due  once  in 
two  weeks,  had  failed  to  arrive  a  few  days  be- 
fore, and  a  searching  party  sent  to  look  for  it 
had  found  the  mutilated  body  of  the  cavalry  ex- 
pressman lying  beside  the  trail  in  a  deep  gulch, 
and  the  mail  matter  torn  and  scattered  over  a 
broad  space. 

The  dead  soldier  was  brought  in  for  burial, 
and  the  fragments  of  letters  and  papers  gathered 

187 


188  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

and  taken  to  the  quartermaster's  office.  Officers 
and  men  spent  many  hours  in  identifying  and 
matching  the  soiled  and  ragged  pieces.  The 
lieutenant  had  worked  diligently  from  noon  till 
evening  in  making  two  magazines  and  half  a 
dozen  letters  legible. 

The  fragments  of  each  leaf  were  pasted  on 
nearly  transparent  paper,  the  printed  matter  be- 
coming fairly  visible  through  its  fibres.  They 
were  sorry-looking  pages,  however,  at  best. 
Many  bits  were  gone,  compelling  the  reader  to 
supply  by  imagination  scenes  and  incidents  lost 
in  the  sage-brush  and  grease-wood  bordering  the 
La  Paz  trail. 

The  young  officer  occupied  a  leather-backed 
cross-legged  camp-chair,  which  rose  high  above 
his  reclining  head,  with  his  legs  stretched  across 
the  bottom  of  a  stool  towards  a  generous  fire  of 
pine  knots,  which  filled  the  room  with  a  flood 
of  light  and  drove  out  the  autumnal  chill.  In 
this  comfortable  attitude,  engrossed  in  a  popu- 
lar serial,  he  had  passed  away  the  first  half  of 
the  night.  He  was  just  beginning  a  new  chap- 
ter when  he  became  aware  of  the  distant  and 
rapid  clatter  of  a  horse's  feet.  The  sound  came 
distinctly  through  the  loop-holes  in  the  outer 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  189 

wall  of  the  room — loop-holes  made  for  rifles  and 
left  open  for  ventilation.  Dropping  his  book 
upon  the  table,  he  rose  and  listened  intently  to 
the  hoof-beats.  Some  one  was  riding  from  the 
direction  of  Prescott,  evidently  in  great  haste; 
and  as  this  was  a  country  of  alarms,  the  officer 
surmised  that  the  rider  was  coming  to  the  fort. 
The  cadence  of  the  gallop  showed  that  the 
animal  was  a  pony,  and  that  he  was  being  hard 
pressed. 

A  brief  halt  at  the  post  of  sentinel  Number 
One  and  the  galloping  was  resumed,  the  sound 
growing  plainer,  and  showing  that  the  rider 
had  turned  up  the  hill  and  was  nearing  the  great 
gates  now  closed  for  the  night.  Presently  the 
clatter  of  hoofs  ceased,  and  the  rapid  breathing 
of  a  horse  could  be  distinctly  heard.  The  rider's 
feet  came  solidly  to  the  earth,  and  an  instant 
afterwards  impatient  fingers  could  be  heard 
groping  along  the  bark-covered  logs  in  search 
of  the  secret  postern — a  gate  made  by  sawing 
off  a  log  close  to  the  ground  and  attaching 
hinges  to  its  inner  side — usually  left  ajar  except 
in  time  of  danger.  Then  the  impatient  and  dis- 
couraged voice  of  a  boy  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  why  can't  I  find  the  gate!" 


190  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

"Seventh  log  to  the  right  of  the  big  gates! 
Push  hard!"  called  the  officer. 

The  immediate  creak  of  hinges  and  rapid 
footsteps  showed  the  rider  had  entered  the  fort 
and  was  approaching  the  room.  The  door 
swung  suddenly  open,  and  a  handsome  boy  of 
about  thirteen  years  entered,  hatless,  clothing 
soiled  and  torn,  with  bleeding  face  and  hands. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Randolph,  the  Indians!  the  In- 
dians !  They  have  attacked  our  ranch,  and  Aunt 
Martha  is  dead!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  sank  ex- 
hausted on  the  stool. 

"Attacked  the  ranch!   When?" 

"About  four  o'clock." 

"How  many?" 

"Don't  know.  Seemed  as  if  there  was  a  hun- 
dred." 

"But,  Willie,  you  are  wounded.    Let  me — " 

"Never  mind  me — it's  only  a  scratch.  Send 
the  soldiers,  or  Brenda  and  all  the  rest  will  be 
killed!" 

"How  did  you  get  away  from  the  ranch? 
But  wait;  I'll  go  for  Captain  Bayard  and  the 
surgeon,  and  then  you  can  tell  us  all  about  it 
and  save  time." 

Mr.  Randolph  had  not  far  to  go  within  the 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  191 

narrow  limits  of  the  stockade.  The  officers 
sought  were  asleep ;  but  to  his  vigorous  and  ex- 
cited summons  they  promptly  arose,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  were  in  his  room,  the  surgeon  bear- 
ing a  small  case  of  instruments. 

Upon  examination  Willie's  "scratch"  was 
found  to  consist  of  a  fracture  of  the  radius  of 
the  left  arm,  made  by  a  bullet,  and  a  flesh- 
wound  in  the  cheek,  made  by  an  arrow.  Neither 
was  a  dangerous  injury  if  properly  treated. 
While  Doctor  Colton  dressed  the  wounds  the 
boy  told  his  story. 

Before  he  had  gone  far  Captain  Bayard  asked 
Lieutenant  Randolph  to  call  the  post  adjutant, 
arid  upon  the  appearance  of  that  official  gave 
orders  for  a  sergeant,  two  corporals,  and  twenty- 
two  men  to  be  got  in  readiness  for  immediate 
mounted  service  with  rations  for  five  days. 

The  fort  was  garrisoned  by  infantry  only,  a 
command  containing  many  good  riders,  how- 
ever, who  were  frequently  mounted  in  an  emer- 
gency requiring  speed  and  short  service.  For 
this  purpose  a  number  of  horses  were  kept  by 
the  quartermaster. 

The  command  of  the  detachment  was  given 
to  Lieutenant  Randolph,  and  he  at  once  sent  a 


192  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

man  to  Prescott  in  advance,  to  secure  the  serv- 
ices of  Paul  Weaver  and  George  Cooler,  two 
accomplished  scouts  and  hunters.  They  were 
asked  to  be  in  readiness  to  join  the  column  when 
it  should  pass  through  the  plaza. 

Half  an  hour  after  the  arrival  of  the  wounded 
boy  the  men  were  in  the  saddle  and  on  the  way 
to  Cholla  Valley  by  way  of  the  mountain 
trail.  As  they  passed  through  Prescott — at  that 
time  a  mere  hamlet  of  rude  log  cabins — they 
found  the  veteran  Weaver  and  the  youthful 
Cooler,  mounted  on  sturdy  broncos,  awaiting 
their  arrival. 

II 

The  family  to  whose  rescue  the  detachment 
was  going  had  travelled  one  year  before  from 
Fort  Wingate,  New  Mexico,  to  Prescott,  Ari- 
zona, under  escort  of  the  soldiers  now  forming 
the  Fort  Whipple  garrison.  When  Captain 
Bayard's  command  reached  Wingate  from  the 
Rio  Grande  he  found  them  awaiting  its  arrival, 
that  they  might  make  the  journey  under  mili- 
tary protection.  The  name  of  the  family  was 
Arnold,  and  it  consisted  of  a  father  and  mother 
and  three  daughters,  and  a  nephew  and  niece. 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  193 

The  daughters  were  aged,  respectively,  twenty, 
eighteen,  and  sixteen,  and  the  nephew  and  niece 
thirteen  and  fifteen. 

Mn  Arnold  waited  upon  Lieutenant  Ran- 
dolph, the  acting  quartermaster  of  the  com- 
mand, the  evening  before  the  march  was  re- 
sumed, and  handed  him  a  note  from  Captain 
Bayard,  directing  him  to  afford  the  bearer  and 
his  family  all  possible  assistance  on  the  march, 
and  to  see  that  their  wagons  were  assigned  a 
place  in  the  train  and  their  property  guarded. 
The  quartermaster's  train  consisted  of  eighty 
wagons  and  five  hundred  mules.  There  was  also 
a  commissary  herd  of  three  hundred  oxen  and 
a  flock  of  eight  hundred  sheep. 

At  the  first  halt  after  leaving  Fort  Wingate 
Lieutenant  Randolph  called  upon  the  Arnolds, 
and  found  the  father,  mother,  and  daughters 
gathered  about  a  fire  busy  in  the  preparation  of 
supper.  Mr.  Arnold  was  making  a  temporary 
table  of  the  tailboard  of  a  wagon  and  two  water- 
kegs.  He  was  a  tall,  well-proportioned  man  of 
dark  complexion  and  regular  features,  with 
black,  unkempt  hair  and  restless  eyes.  He  was 
clothed  in  faded  and  stained  butternut  flannel, 
consisting  of  a  loose  frock  and  wide  trousers, 


194  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

the  legs  of  the  trousers  tucked  into  the  tops  of 
road-worn  boots.  His  hat  was  a  broad-brimmed 
drab  felt,  battered  and  frayed.  Mrs.  Arnold 
sat  on  a  stool,  superintending  the  work  of  the 
family,  her  elbows  upon  her  knees,  holding  a 
long-stemmed  cob-pipe  to  her  lips  with  her  left 
hand,  removing  it  at  the  end  of  each  inspiration 
to  emit  the  smoke,  which  curled  slowly  above 
her  thin  upper  lip  and  thin  aquiline  nose,  and 
replacing  it  for  the  next  whiff.  She  was  a  tall, 
angular,  high-shouldered,  and  flat-chested  wo- 
man, dark  from  exposure  to  wind,  sun,  and  rain, 
her  hair  brown  in  the  neck,  but  many  shades 
lighter  on  the  top  of  her  head.  Her  eyes  were 
of  an  expressionless  gray.  A  brown  calico  of 
scant  pattern  clung  in  lank  folds  to  her  thin  and 
bony  figure. 

The  three  daughters  were  younger  and  less- 
faded  types  of  their  mother.  Each  was  clad  in 
a  narrow-skirted  calico  dress,  and  each  was 
stockingless  and  shoeless.  Mother  and  daugh- 
ters were  dull,  slow  of  speech,  and  ignorant. 

The  lieutenant  stopped  long  enough  to  give 
some  directions  as  to  the  observance  of  camp 
rules,  the  order  of  marching,  how  to  prepare  for 
waterless  and  woodless  camping-places,  what  to 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  195 

do  in  case  of  attack,  etc.,  and  was  about  to  turn 
away,  when  a  clear,  boyish  voice  called  from 
the  rear  of  a  cedar-bush. 

"Oh,  lieutenant,  may  I  speak  to  you  a  mo- 
ment?" 

Turning  his  horse  in  the  direction  of  the  voice 
the  officer  saw  a  boy  approaching,  switching  a 
handsome  riding-whip  in  his  hand,  a  boy  that 
made  a  good  impression  at  once.  In  fact,  the 
quality,  modulation,  and  evident  refinement  of 
the  voice  had  prepared  Randolph  before  he 
turned  for  seeing  just  the  bright,  handsome  lad 
that  had  now  come  up. 

He  was  apparently  about  thirteen  years  old, 
neatly  attired  in  a  blue  blouse  and  gray  trousers, 
with  russet-leather  leggings  and  a  waist-belt  of 
the  same  material,  from  which  hung  a  neat  re- 
volver and  small  pouch.  A  light  felt  hat  sat  on 
a  well-shaped  head,  around  which  clustered 
closely  cropped  brown  hair  that  showed  a  de- 
cided inclination  to  curl.  Two  honest  blue  eyes 
set  in  a  bright  and  intelligent  face  looked  smil- 
ingly up  to  the  officer  as  he  advanced. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  lieutenant;  "what  do  you 
wish?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  you  can  help  us,  sir, 


196  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

but  my  sister's  pony  has  lost  a  shoe,  and  we  don't 
know  whether  we  had  better  pull  off  the  other 
three  or  let  her  wear  them." 

"Replace  the  lost  one." 

"That's  not  so  easy,  sir,  with  no  spare  shoes, 
and  no  blacksmith  this  side  of  Wingate." 

"Have  you  never  travelled  with  a  government 
train  before?" 

"No,  sir." 

"How  do  you  suppose  we  shoe  these  five  hun- 
dred mules  that  are  drawing  our  wagons  and 
constantly  dropping  shoes?" 

"Then  you  really  have  a  blacksmith!  But 
that  will  do  us  no  good.  Brenda  and  I  do  not 
belong  to  the  government." 

"But  a  part  of  the  government  belongs  to 
you,"  replied  Randolph.  "Where  is  the 
pony?" 

"Over  there  behind  the  cedars.  Brenda  is 
giving  her  some  sugar  and  corn-bread,"  an- 
swered the  lad,  pointing  with  his  whip  in  the 
direction  indicated. 

"Get  the  pony  and  come  with  me,  and  we  will 
see  if  ^Uncle  Sam'  cannot  spare  a  shoe  for  a 
niece's  saddle-horse." 

Returning  thanks,  the  boy  ran  back  joyfully. 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  197 

'and  soon  returned  leading  a  beautiful  brown 
pony  and  accompanied  by  a  young  girl.  The 
j  boy  said :  "Brenda,  this  is  the  quartermaster  who 
is  going  to  have  Gypsy  shod." 
,  The  girl  bowed,  and  as  the  lieutenant  sprang 
from  his  saddle,  instinctively  doing  homage  to 
American  girlhood,  she  extended  her  hand,  say- 
ing: "I  suppose  we  must  consider  that  brother 
has  introduced  us." 

"Yes,  if  ^Quartermaster'  was  my  name,"  re- 
plied the  lieutenant;  "but  I  think  you  will  find 
it  more  convenient  during  our  long  march  to 
,  know  my  name."  And  he  handed  the  girl  a  leaf 
from  his  memorandum-pad  upon  which  he  had 
written  it.  "One  does  not  carry  a  card-case  on 
a  frontier  march,  you  know.  May  I  know  your 
name?" 

"It  is  Arnold,"  replied  the  girl. 

"Not  children  of  Mr.  Arnold? — he  told  me 
he  had  three  daughters  only,"  and  Randolph 
glanced  from  the  neatly  and  well-dressed  boy 
and  girl  before  him  to  the  three  ill-clad,  bare- 
footed girls  at  the  camp-fire. 

"No;  we  are  a  nephew  and  niece,"  Brenda 
answered.     "If  you  will  lend  me  your  pencil 


198  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

and  paper,  I  will  exchange  frontier-cards  with 
you." 

The  pad  was  returned  to  the  lieutenant  with 
the  names  Brenda  Arnold  and  William  Duncan 
Arnold  upon  it. 

The  contrast  between  the  two  sets  of  cousins 
was  something  more  than  one  of  dress.  The 
young  girl  before  the  officer  was  decidedly  at- 
tractive in  person,  as  well  as  refined  in  speech 
and  manner.  How  she  could  be  even  remotely 
related  to  the  Arnold  daughters  at  the  camp-fire 
was  difficult  to  comprehend.  She  was  a  blonde, 
with  abundant  tresses  of  flaxen  hair  held  in  a 
leash  of  blue  ribbon,  and  a  delicate  complexion 
which  the  journey  had  tanned  and  sprinkled 
with  abundant  freckles,  giving  promise  of  rare 
beauty  with  added  years  and  less -exposure  to 
sun  and  wind.  The  boy  was  a  self-reliant  little 
fellow,  who  exhibited  a  refined  brotherly  cour- 
tesy towards  his  sister,  a  reflection  of  good  home 
training. 

The  Arnold  history,  incidentally  gathered  by 
Randolph  during  a  month's  march,  was  briefly 
this :  Brenda  and  William  were  the  children  of 
Mr.  Arnold's  only  brother,  and  had  been  reared 
in  a  large  inland  city  of  New  York.     Their 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  199 

father  and  mother  had  recently  perished  in  a 
railway  accident,  and  the  children  had  been  sent 
to  the  paternal  uncle  in  Colorado,  who  was  be- 
lieved, as  he  had  always  represented  himself,  to 
be  in  affluent  circumstances.  There  were  rela- 
tives on  the  mother's  side,  but  they  were  scat- 
tered, two  of  her  brothers  being  in  Europe  at 
the  time  of  the  accident.  Brenda  and  Willie 
had  reached  their  Western  uncle  just  as  he  was 
starting  on  one  of  his  periodical  moves — this 
time  to  Arizona. 

The  different  social  status  of  the  families  of 
the  two  brothers  was  unusual  but  not  impossible 
in  our  country.  One  of  the  brothers  was  ambi- 
tious, of  steady  habits,  and  possessed  of  a  recep- 
tive mind;  the  other  was  idle,  impatient  of  re- 
straint, with  a  disinclination  to  protracted  effort 
of  any  kind.  One  had  worked  his  way  through 
college,  had  entered  a  profession,  and  married 
well.  The  other  had  drifted  through  States  and 
Territories — a  rolling  stone  that  gathered  no 
moss — and  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  no- 
madic Missourian. 

The  pony  Gypsy  was  shod  by  the  soldier 
blacksmith,  and  the  boy  William  who  led  her 
to  the  travelling  forge  was  informed  that  the 


200  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

train  contained  representatives  of  many  useful 
trades,  and  that  he  and  his  relative  v^ere  wel- 
come to  any  services  the  command  could  render. 

On  the  daily  marches  it  was  the  custom  of 
Lieutenant  Randolph  to  ride  in  the  rear  or  be- 
side the  wagons.  The  infantry  marched  out 
briskly  every  morning,  never  getting  far  in  ad- 
vance ;  but  it  was  rarely  seen  again  by  the  rear- 
guard till  the  next  camping-place  was  reached. 

The  wagons  of  the  Arnold  family  travelled 
between  the  guard  and  the  government  wagons. 
They  consisted  of  two  large  canvas-covered 
"prairie-schooners,"  drawn  by  three  pairs  of 
oxen  each,  beside  which  four  cows,  four  horses, 
and  four  dogs  were  usually  grouped.  The 
father  and  the  eldest  daughter  drove  the  ox- 
teams;  the  mother,  the  two  remaining  daugh- 
ters, and  Brenda  rode  the  ponies.  William 
walked,  or  rode  in  a  wagon,  except  when  one 
of  the  cousins,  his  aunt,  or  Brenda  chose  the 
wagon  and  let  him  have  a  horse. 

As  soon  as  Lieutenant  Randolph  noticed  that 
the  boy  was  dependent  upon  the  charity  of 
others  for  a  ride,  he  made  him  happy  by  giving 
him  an  order  on  the  chief  wagonmaster  for  a 
spare  mule  with  saddle,  bridle,  and  spurs.    Ac- 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  201 

cordingly  he  appeared  one  morning  mounted  on 
a  little  buff-colored  mule  with  zebra  strips  on 
shoulders,  hips,  and  knees,  and  accompanied  the 
lieutenant  during  the  day's  march.  The  follow- 
ing day  Brenda  joined  her  brother,  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  journey  the  two  usually  rode  with 
Lieutenant  Randolph. 

The  route  abounded  with  game,  and  in  sec- 
tions where  the  column  was  secure  from  Indian 
attack  the  lieutenant  taught  the  boy  and  girl  the 
use  of  rifle  and  pistol  with  fair  success.  The 
instruction  began  in  camp,  where  they  were 
taught  the  mechanism  of  their  arms  and  target 
practice. 

Brenda  soon  overcame  her  natural  timidity 
for  firearms,  and  became  a  successful  rival  of 
her  brother  when  shooting  at  inanimate  objects ; 
but  pity  for  birds  and  beasts  prevented  her  from 
being  a  successful  sportswoman. 

The  niece  always  acted  as  applicant  when- 
ever the  Arnold  family  desired  a  favor  from 
their  military  escort.  One  day,  when  the  train 
had  pulled  out  of  camp,  the  two  young  attend- 
ants did  not  join  their  friend  as  usual.  He  did 
not  give  the  circumstance  serious  thought,  sup- 
posing their  absence  was  caused  by  some  domes- 


202  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

tic  accident  or  delay;  and  not  doubting  but  he 
would  presently  hear  the  clatter  of  the  pony's 
and  mule's  hoofs  as  Brenda  and  her  brother 
hastened  to  overtake  him,  the  lieutenant  con- 
tinued to  ride  on. 

He  had  gone  nearly  a  mile  when  a  corporal 
of  the  guard  ran  after  him,  and  reported  that 
the  Arnolds  had  not  hitched  up,  and  were  still 
in  camp.  Halting  the  train  and  guard,  Ran- 
dolph went  back  and  found  Brenda  sitting  by 
the  roadside  in  tears. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Miss  Arnold?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  it  is  something  this  time,"  she  sobbed, 
"that  I  think  even  you  cannot  remedy." 

"Then  you  think  I  can  generally  remedy 
things  ?    Thank  you." 

"You  have  always  helped  us  so  far;  but  I  do 
not  see  how  you  can  now." 

"What  is  the  trouble,  please?" 

"Our  poor  oxen  have  worn  their  hoofs 
through  to  the  quick.  They  have  been  obliged 
to  travel  much  faster  and  longer  distances,  in 
order  to  keep  up  with  the  military  train,  than 
they  ever  did  before.  And  the  gravel  has  worn 
out  their  hoofs.    We  must  remain  behind.' 


>j 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  203 

"Perhaps  things  are  not  so  bad  as  you  think. 
Let  us  go  and  see,"  said  the  lieutenant. 

"But  we  must  go  slower,  Mr.  Randolph,  or 
the  feet  will  not  heal.  Uncle  says  so.  And  if 
we  drop  behind  the  soldiers,  who  will  protect 
us  from  the  Indians?" 

Rising  dejectedly,  and  by  no  means  inspired 
by  hope,  Brenda  led  the  way  to  the  Arnold 
camping-place,  where  the  officer  found  the 
father  and  mother  on  their  knees  beside  an  ox, 
engaged  in  binding  rawhide  "boots"  to  the  ani- 
mal's feet.  These  boots  were  squares  cut  from  a 
fresh  hide  procured  from  the  last  ox  slaughtered 
by  the  soldiers.  The  foot  of  the  ox  being  set 
in  the  centre,  the  square  was  gathered  about  the 
ankle  and  fastened  with  a  thong  of  buckskin. 

"Are  all  your  cattle  in  this  condition,  Mr. 
Arnold?"  asked  Randolph. 

"Only  one  other's  's  bad  's  this ;  but  all  of  'em's 
bad." 

"That,  certainly,  is  a  very  bad-looking  foot. 
I  don't  see  how  you  kept  up  with  cattle  in  that 
condition." 

"Had  to,  or  git  left." 

"That's  where  you  make  a  mistake.  We 
could  not  leave  you  behind  in  any  case.    You 


204  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

must  go  with  us,  somehow,  for  you  would  not 
last  a  day  in  this  region  if  we  left  you  behind." 

"I  didn't  think  'twould  be  any  use  to  say  any- 
thin',''  said  Mr.  Arnold.  "You  seem  t'  have  all 
you  can  haul  now." 

"We  have  three  hundred  head  of  oxen  in  Dur 
commissary  herd  that  used  to  belong  to  a 
freighter.  We  can  exchange  with  you.  A  beef 
is  a  beef." 

"Thank  you,  lieutenant.  I  didn't  think  you 
could  do  it." 

"That's  easy  enough.  Turn  your  cattle  into 
our  herd  and  catch  up  a  new  lot.  When  we  get 
to  Prescott  you  can  have  your  old  teams  if  you 
want  them." 

"Thank  you,  again.  I  shall  want  them.  They 
know  my  ways  and  I  know  theirs." 

"Here,  Willie  1"  the  officer  called  to  the  boy. 
"Bring  up  your  zebra  and  take  a  note  for  me 
to  Captain  Bayard." 

A  note  was  written  and  despatched  to  the  com- 
manding officer,  detailing  the  circumstances 
causing  the  halt,  and  the  action  taken  by  the 
writer  to  enable  the  immigrants  to  go  on.  Half 
an  hour  later  the  prairie-schooners  were  again 
on  the  road,  and  joy  reigned  in  the  Arnold 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  205 

hearts.  Frequent  changes  of  draught  animals 
were  afterwards  made,  until  the  close  of  the 
march,  when  Mr.  Arnold's  stock  was  gathered 
from  the  drove  and  returned  to  him  in  fine  con- 
dition. 

When  the  soldiers  arrived  at  Fort  Whipple, 
or  rather  the  site  of  that  work — for  they  built 
it  after  their  arrival — the  Arnolds  made  their 
home  for  a  short  time  in  Prescott,  and  then  re- 
moved to  a  section  of  land  which  they  took  up 
in  Cholla  Valley,  ten  miles  to  the  west  by  the 
mountain  trail,  and  twenty-five  by  the  only  prac- 
ticable wagon-road.  This  place  was  selected  for 
a  residence  because  its  distance  from  Prescott 
and  its  situation  at  the  junction  of  the  bridle- 
path and  wagon-road  made  it  an  excellent  site 
for  a  wayside  inn. 

Parties  from  the  fort  frequently  passed  the 
Arnold  ranch  during  the  stages  of  selection, 
building,  and  cultivation,  and  the  officers  took 
much  interest  in  inspecting  the  arrangements  for 
comfort,  and  the  devices  for  making  a  defence 
against  possible  Indian  attack.  The  house  and 
stables  were  built  of  pine  logs,  squared  and  laid 
up  horizontally,  the  windows  fitted  with  thick 
shutters,  and  the  doorways  made  to  resist  forci- 


206  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

ble  entrance.  Loop-holes  for  firearms  were 
made  in  the  walls  and  temporarily  filled  with 
mud. 

In  case  the  house  became  untenable  an  in- 
genious earthwork  was  constructed  twenty  yards 
from  it,  which  could  be  entered  by  means  of  a 
subterranean  passage  from  the  cellar.  This 
miniature  fort  was  in  the  form  of  a  circular  pit 
sunk  four  feet  into  the  ground  and  covered  by 
a  nearly  flat  roof,  the  edges  or  eaves  of  which 
were  but  a  foot  and  a  half  above  the  surface  of 
the  earth.  In  the  space  between  the  surface  and 
the  eaves  were  loop-holes.  The  roof  was  of 
heavy  pine  timber,  closely  joined,  sloping  up- 
wards slightly  from  circumference  to  centre, 
and  covered  by  two  feet  of  tamped  earth.  To 
obtain  water  a  second  covered  way  led  from  the 
earthwork  to  a  spring  fifty  yards  distant,  its  outer 
entrance  being  concealed  in  a  rock  nook 
shrouded  in  a  thick  clump  of  willows. 

This  history  of  the  Arnolds  explains  the 
tragedy  which  brought  Willie  to  the  fort.  While 
his  arm  was  being  set  and  wounds  dressed,  and 
preparations  being  made  for  the  expedition,  he 
told  the  officers  all  that  had  happened  at  Cholla 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  207 

Valley  on  the  day  of  the  attack  up  to  the  time 
of  his  departure. 

A  party  of  forty-one  Apaches  had  appeared 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  ranch  near  the  close  of  the 
afternoon,  and  had  spent  an  hour  or  more  in 
reconnoitring  the  valley  and  its  approaches. 
Apparently  satisfied  that  they  v^ould  not  be  in- 
terrupted in  their  attack  by  outside  parties,  they 
began  operations  by  collecting  the  cattle  and 
horses,  and  placing  them  in  charge  of  two  of 
their  number  near  the  spring. 

Next  they  fired  one  of  the  out-buildings,  and 
under  cover  of  the  smoke  gained  entrance  to  a 
second  which  stood  less  than  one  hundred  feet 
from  the  north  side  of  the  house.  Knocking  the 
mud  and  chips  from  between  the  logs  here  and 
there,  they  were  enabled  to  open  fire  upon  the 
settlers  at  short  range. 

With  the  first  appearance  of  the  Indians,  Mr. 
Arnold,  assisted  by  two  travellers  who  had  ar- 
rived that  afternoon  from  Date  Creek  on  their 
way  to  Prescott,  closed  the  windows  and  door- 
ways with  heavy  puncheon  shutters,  removed 
the  stops  from  the  loop-holes,  directed  the  girls 
to  carry  provisions  and  property  into  the  earth- 


208  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

work,  got  the  arms  and  ammunition  ready,  and 
patiently  awaited  further  demonstrations. 

The  available  defensive  forqe  consisted  of 
every  member  of  the  family  and  the  two 
strangers.  The  mother  and  daughters  had  been 
taught  the  use  of  firearms  by  the  husband  and 
father,  and  Willie  and  Brenda  by  Lieutenant 
Randolph.  In  an  emergency  like  the  one  being 
narrated,  where  death  and  mutilation  were  sure 
to  follow  capture,  the  girls  were  nerved  to  do 
all  that  could  be  expected  of  boys  of  their  ages. 

Until  the  Apaches  gaine'd  possession  of  the 
second  out-building  few  shots  had  been  ex- 
changed, and  the  besieged  closely  watched  their 
movements  from  the  loop-holes.  It  was  while 
doing  this  that  a  bullet  pierced  the  brain  of 
Mrs.  Arnold,  and  she  fell  dead  in  the  midst  of 
her  family.  Had  the  two  travellers  not  been 
present,  the  demoralization  which  followed  the 
death  of  the  mother  might  have  enabled  the 
savages  to  reach  the  doors  and  gain  an  entrance ; 
but  while  the  family  was  plunged  in  its  first 
grief,  the  strangers  stood  at  the  loop-holes  and 
held  the  assailants  in  check. 

The  body  of  Mrs.  Arnold  was  borne  to  the 
cellar  by  the  sorrowing  husband,  accompanied 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  209 

by  the  weeping  children.  The  firing  became 
desultory  and  without  apparent  eflfect.  Bullet 
and  arrow  could  not  pierce  the  thick  walls  of 
the  log  house.  Only  through  the  loop-holes 
could  a  missile  enter,  and  by  rare  good-fortune 
none  of  the  defenders,  after  the  first  casualty, 
chanced  to  be  in  line  when  one  did. 

The  family  again  assembled  in  defence  of 
their  home  and  lives,  the  grave  necessity  of 
keeping  off  the  impending  danger  banishing 
thoughts  of  their  bereavement,  in  a  measure.  An 
ominous  silence  on  the  part  of  the  Indians  was 
broken  at  last  by  the  swish  of  a  blazing  arrow 
to  the  roof.  Mr.  Arnold  rushed  to  the  garret, 
and  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle  broke  a  hole  in  the 
covering  and  flung  the  little  torch  to  the  ground. 

But  another  and  another  followed,  and  in 
spite  of  desperate  and  vigilant  action  the  pine 
shingles  burst  into  flames  ia  several  places.  At 
this  juncture,  Willie,  whose  station  was  on  the 
south  side  of  the  house,  and  who  had  for  some 
time  been  looking  through  a  loop-hole  in  that 
direction,  approached  Mr.  Arnold  and  said : 

"Uncle  Amos,  I  see  Gypsy  grazing  near  the 
spring,  close  by  the  willows,  and  the  two  In- 
dians there  keep  well  this  way,  watching  the 


210  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

fight.  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  creep 
through  the  passage,  mount,  and  ride  to  the  fort 
for  the  soldiers." 

Mr.  Arnold  took  a  long  look  through  the 
aperture  and  replied:  '^God  bless  you,  William; 
I  think  there's  a  good  chance  of  your  doin'  it. 
If  Brenda's  willin',  you  may  try  it." 

Brenda's  reply  to  the  proposition  was  to  throw 
her  arms  about  her  brother's  neck,  kiss  him,  and 
without  a  word  go  back  to  her  station.  The  lad 
silently  took  leave  of  his  uncle  and  cousins,  and 
dropped  into  the  cellar.  Passing  into  the  earth- 
work he  took  a  bridle  and  saddle,  buckled  on  a 
pair  of  spurs,  and  crept  through  the  passage  to 
the  spring.  Standing  in  the  screen  of  willows 
he  parted  the  bushes  cautiously  on  the  side 
towards  the  Indians,  and  saw  them,  over  a  hun- 
dred yards  distant,  standing  with  their  backs 
towards  him,  watching  the  house,  the  roof  of 
which  was  now  a  roaring  leaping  mass  of  flame. 

Closing  the  boughs  again,  Willie  opened  them 
in  an  opposite  direction,  and  crept  softly  up  to 
Gypsy,  holding  out  his  hand  to  her.  The  docile 
pony  raised  her  head,  and,  coming  forward, 
placed  her  nose  in  his  palm,  submitting  to  be 
bridled  and  saddled  without  objection  or  noise. 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  211 

Leaping  into  the  saddle,  the  boy  drove  his 
spurs  into  the  bronco's  flanks,  and  was  oflf  at  a 
furious  gallop  in  the  direction  of  Whipple. 
Startled  by  the  hoof-beats  the  Apaches  looked 
back  and  began  running  diagonally  across  the 
field  to  try  to  intercept  the  boy  before  he  turned 
into  the  direct  trail.  Arrow  after  arrow  and 
one  bullet  sped  after  him,  one  of  the  former 
grazing  his  cheek,  and  the  latter  fracturing  his 
arm. 

It  was  dusk  when  Willie  began  his  ride,  and 
it  grew  rapidly  dark  as  he  hurried  along  the 
bridle-path.  Neither  he  nor  the  pony  had  been 
over  this  route  before.  Twice  they  got  off  the 
trail,  and  long  and  miserable  hours  were  spent 
in  regaining  it;  but  the  fort  was  reached  at  last, 
and  the  alarm  given. 

Ill 

With  twenty-eight  men,  including  the  two 
scouts  and  post  surgeon.  Lieutenant  Randolph 
left  Prescott  for  Cholla  Valley.  The  night  was 
moonless,  but  the  myriad  stars  shone  brilliantly 
through  the  rare  atmosphere  of  that  Western 
region,  lighting  the  trail  and  making  it  easy  to 
follow.    It  was  a  narrow  pathway,  with  but  few 


212  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

places  where  two  horsemen  could  ride  abreast, 
so  conversation  was  almost  impossible,  and  few 
words,  except  those  of  command,  were  spoken; 
nor  were  the  men  in  a  mood  to  talk.  All  were 
more  or  less  excited  and  impatient,  and  wher- 
ever the  road  would  permit  urged  their  horses 
into  a  run. 

The  trail  climbed  and  descended  rugged 
steeps,  crossed  smooth  intervals,  skirted  the 
edges  of  precipices,  wound  along  the  borders  of 
dry  creeks,  and  threaded  forests  and  clumps  of 
sage-brush  and  grease-wood.  Throughout  the 
ride  the  imaginations  of  officers  and  men  were 
depicting  the  scenes  they  feared  were  being  en- 
acted in  the  valley,  or  which  might  take  place 
if  they  failed  to  arrive  in  time  to  prevent. 

It  is  needless  to  say,  perhaps,  that  the  one  per- 
son about  whom  the  thoughts  of  the  men  com- 
posing the  rescuing  party  centred  was  the  gentle, 
bright,  and  pretty  Brenda.  She  had  been  a 
conspicuous  figure  and  a  daily  companion  on  a 
march  of  over  four  weeks'  duration,  and  they 
had  frequently  met  her  since  their  arrival  and 
location  at  the  post.  Her  uniform  courtesy  and 
fine  appreciation  of  the  slightest  service  rend- 
ered her  had  won  the  esteem  and  respect  of  every 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  213 

soldier  in  the  command.  To  think  of  her  falling 
into  the  hands  of  the  merciless  Apaches  was  al- 
most maddening. 

On  and  on  rode  the  column,  the  men  giving 
their  panting  steeds  no  more  rest  than  the  nature 
of  the  road  and  the  success  of  the  expedition 
required.  At  last  they  reached  the  spur  of  the 
range  behind  which  lay  Cholla  Valley.  They 
skirted  it,  and  with  anxious  eyes  sought  through 
the  darkness  the  place  where  the  ranch  buildings 
should  be.  All  was  silence.  No  report  of  fire- 
arms or  whoop  of  savages  disturbed  the  quiet  of 
the  valley. 

Ascending  a  swell  in  the  surface  of  the  ground 
they  saw  that  all  the  buildings  had  disappeared, 
nothing  meeting  their  anxious  gaze  but  beds  of 
lurid  coals,  occasionally  fanned  into  a  red  glow 
by  the  intermittent  night  breeze.  But  there  was 
the  impregnable  earthwork — the  family  must  be 
in  that!  Randolph  dashed  swiftly  forward, 
eagerly  followed  by  his  men.  The  earthwork 
was  destroyed — nothing  but  a  circular  pit  re- 
maining, in  the  bottom  of  which  glowed  the  em- 
bers of  the  fallen  roof  timbers. 

A  search  for  the  slain  was  at  once  begun  and 
continued  for  a  long  time.     Every  square  rod 


214  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

of  the  valley  for  a  mile  was  hunted  over  without 
result,  and  the  party  gathered  once  more  about 
the  two  cellars  in  which  the  coals  still  glowed. 

"It  was  in  the  cellar  of  the  house  that  the  boy 
said  the  body  of  his  aunt  was  laid,  was  it  not?" 
asked  Doctor  Colton. 

"Yes,"  replied  Lieutenant  Randolph. 

"Then,  if  all  were  killed  after  he  left — shot 
from  time  to  time — ^would  not  their  remains  be 
likely  to  be  beside  hers?" 

"Not  beside  hers,  I  think.  The  last  stand 
must  have  been  made  in  the  fort." 

"Then  the  bodies  must  be  under  that  circular 
bed  of  coal,  Randolph,  if  they  died  here." 

"Probably,  doctor.  It's  an  uncanny  thing  to 
do,  but  we  must  stir  the  coals  and  see.  If  all 
have  perished,  our  duty  ends  here  for  the  pres- 
ent; if  they  are  living,  we  must  find  them.  Ser- 
geant Rafiferty,  have  some  fence  rails  brought 
and  examine  this  pit." 

In  a  few  moments  a  half-dozen  rails  were  be- 
ing thrust  down  into  the  coals,  their  ends  burst- 
ing into  flame  as  they  searched  the  fiery  depths. 
Nothing  was  brought  up. 

"Randolph,   didn't   the   boy   say   something 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  215 

about  a  covered  way  from  this  cellar  to  the 
spring?"  asked  the  surgeon. 

"That  is  so,  doctor ;  they  must  be  in  that.  Can 
you  see  any  sign  of  an  opening?" 

"Nothing  positive.  Behind  those  wagon-tires 
there  seems  to  be  a  natural  slope  of  earth." 

"Tip  the  tires  over,  sergeant,"  said  the  lieu- 
tenant, and  presently  a  number  of  tires,  from 
which  the  fire  had  burned  the  wheels,  fell  into 
the  coals,  disclosing  a  recently  filled  aperture. 

"Looks  as  if  the  end  of  a  passage  had  been 
filled,  doesn^t  it?"  said  the  doctor. 

"It  certainly  does,"  answered  the  lieutenant. 
"Let  us  go  down  to  the  spring  and  examine." 

The  two  officers  and  several  of  the  men  went 
to  the  spring.  When  they  arrived  there,  Ran- 
dolph and  the  doctor  broke  a  way  through  the 
thick-set  willows  into  an  irregular  mass  of  small 
bowlders.  Climbing  over  these  they  found 
themselves  at  the  mouth  of  the  passage,  a  little 
over  five  feet  high  and  three  feet  wide. 

"This  must  be  the  covered  way,"  said  the  lieu- 
tenant. Placing  his  head  within  the  entrance 
he  called :  "Oh,  Mr.  Arnold — ^we  are  here ;  your 
friends  from  Fort  Whipple!" 

"Thank  Heaven!"  in  a  man's  tones  came  clear- 


216  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

ly  through  the  entrance,  accompanied  by  a  sud- 
den outburst  of  sobs  in  girlish  voices. 

"We'll  be  there  directly,"  spoke  another  man's 
voice — that  of  a  stranger. 

Then  followed  the  sound  of  steps,  accom- 
panied by  voices,  sounding  at  the  entrance,  as  a 
voice  spoken  in  a  long  tube  appears  to  be  ut- 
tered at  the  listener's  end.  Some  time  elapsed 
before  those  who  seemed  so  near  appeared ;  but 
at  last  there  emerged  from  the  passage  Mr. 
Arnold,  two  strange  men,  and  three  girls — but 
no  Brenda. 

"Where's  Brenda,  Mr.  Arnold?"  asked  Ran- 
dolph. 

"Heaven  knows.  She  gave  herself  up  to  the 
Apaches." 

"Gave  herself  up  to  the  Apaches!  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"That's  precisely  what  she  did,  lieutenant," 
said  one  of  the  strangers,  adding:  "My  name  is 
Bartlett,  from  Hassayampa,  and  this  is  my 
friend  Gray,  from  La  Paz.  We  were  on  our 
way  to  Prescott,  and  stopped  here  for  dinner. 
But  about  the  girl  Brenda;  she  took  it  into  her 
head,  after  we  got  into  the  little  fort,  that  unless 


o 

pi 
o 


''k^  ♦f 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  217 

some  one  could  create  a  diversion  to  mislead  the 
'  devils  w^e'd  all  lose  our  scalps." 

"That  beautiful  young  girl!  Give  herself  up 
to  certain  torture  and  death?  Why  did  you  al- 
low it?" 

"Wasn't  consulted — surprised  us.  I  hope, 
lieutenant,  you  will  not  think  so  hard  of  me  and 
my  friend  as  to  believe  we'd  allowed  it  if  we  had 
suspected  what  the  plucky  miss  meant  to  do." 

"Tell  me  all  the  circumstances,  Mr.  Bartlett," 
said  the  lieutenant. 

The  party  moved  slowly  along  the  path  from 
the  spring  to  the  fires,  and  as  they  walked  Mr. 
Arnold  and  the  travellers  gave  an  account  of 
all  that  had  happened  after  Willie  left  for  Fort 
Whipple. 

The  burning  arrows  sent  to  the  pitch-pine  roof 
became  so  numerous  that  the  besieged  found  it 
impossible  to  prevent  the  flames  from  catching 
in  several  places.  The  boy  was  hardly  out  of 
sight  before  the  house  became  untenable,  and 
the  defenders  were  obliged  to  retire  to  the  fort 

When  the  house  was  consumed  and  its  tim- 
bers had  fallen  into  the  cellar,  a  mass  of  burn- 
ing brands,  the  space  about  the  earthwork  was 
clear,  and  the  rifles  at  its  loop-holes  kept  the 


218  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

Indians  close  within  the  building  they  had  oc- 
cupied since  the  attack  began.  Not  one  dared 
to  show  himself  to  the  unerring  marksmen  who 
watched  their  every  movement. 

For  a  long  time  silence  reigned  in  the  out- 
building. Not  a  shot  came  from  its  chinks,  and 
the  vociferous  yells  were  still.  But  for  the  pres- 
ence of  their  ponies  and  the  two  sentinels  near 
the  spring  the  defenders  might  have  supposed 
the  Indians  had  gone  away.  The  whites,  how- 
ever, felt  sure  that  plans  were  being  matured 
which  meant  disaster  to  them. 

At  last  these  plans  were  revealed  in  a  con- 
stant and  rapid  flight  of  arrows  directed  at  a 
point  between  two  loop-holes — a  point  which 
could  not  be  reached  by  the  besieged — and 
where,  if  a  considerable  collection  of  burning 
brands  could  be  heaped  against  the  logs  between 
the  earth  and  eaves,  the  pine  walls  and  rafters 
must  take  fire.  Walls  and  roof  were  too  solid 
to  be  cut  away,  and  water  could  not  reach  the 
outside. 

The  defenders  held  a  consultation,  and  de- 
cided that  in  the  event  of  the  fire  getting  control 
of  the  fort  they  should  retire  into  the  covered 
way,  block  up  the  entrance  with  earth,  and  re- 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  219 

main  there  until  help  should  arrive.  It  was 
thought  that  the  Indians  would  suppose  all  had 
perished  in  the  flames. 

"But  they  know  we  came  here  by  an  under- 
ground passage  from  the  house,"  said  Brenda. 
"Will  they  not  suspect  that  we  have  entered  an- 
other passage  if  we  all  disappear?" 

"Perhaps  they  may,"  answered  Mr.  Arnold. 
"I  had  not  thought  of  that.  WeUl  have  t'  take 
our  chances." 

"If  one  of  us  was  to  appear  to  escape  from 
here  and  join  them,"  continued  the  girl,  "I  think 
they  would  suppose  the  others  had  perished  and 
make  no  search." 

"That  may  be  true,  but  I'll  take  my  chances 
here,"  said  Mr.  Gray. 

"So  will  I,"  said  his  companion.  "A  fellow 
wouldn't  last  a  minute  outside  this  fort.  I  pre- 
fer smothering  here  to  the  death  those  devils 
would  give  me." 

Time  passed  on,  and  it  soon  became  evident 
to  the  besieged  that  the  outer  wall  was  on  fire. 
It  was  shown  by  the  black  smoke  which 
wreathed  in  at  the  loop-holes  on  the  northern 
side,  and  drew  in  long  lines  to  loop-holes  on  the 


220  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

southern,  and  the  fresh  outbreak  of  whoops  in 
which  there  was  a  note  of  exultation. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  and  darkness  was 
creeping  over  the  valley  when  the  first  tongue  of 
flame  licked  through  a  crevice  in  the  roof  and 
showed  that  the  fire  had  gained  a  foothold.  Soon 
a  hole  appeared  close  to  the  eaves,  which  grad- 
ually enlarged  towards  the  centre  of  the  roof 
and  along  the  surface  of  the  earth.  With 
blankets  the  fire  was  beaten  out  on  the  sides,  but 
it  crept  insidiously  along  between  the  timber 
and  the  earth  covering. 

In  making  the  roof,  branches  of  pine  had  been 
spread  over  the  timber,  and  the  branches  in  turn 
covered  with  a  thick  layer  of  straw  to  prevent 
the  earth  from  filtering  between  the  logs.  This 
material  was  as  dry  as  tinder,  and  held  and  car- 
ried the  fire. 

The  men  stood  at  the  loop-holes  and  com- 
pelled the  savages  to  remain  under  cover  of  the 
out-building,  while  the  four  girls  exerted  them- 
selves to  keep  the  fire  from  showing  inside.  De- 
lay until  help  could  arrive  was  what  all  strug- 
gled to  gain.  But  the  increasing  heat  and  smoke 
showed  the  defenders  at  last  that  they  could  no 
longer  put  off  retiring  to  the  covered  way. 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  221 

The  word  was  given  and  all  entered  it,  and 
the  men,  with  shovels,  began  to  close  the  en- 
trance. When  it  was  a  little  more  than  half 
closed,  the  hole  in  the  roof  had  become  trian- 
gular in  shape,  resembling  the  space  between 
two  spokes  and  a  felloe  of  a  wheel.  On  the  earth 
or  felloe  side  of  the  triangle  there  was  no  fire; 
but  the  other  sides  were  burning  fiercely. 

Making  a  sudden  dash,  and  before  any  one 
could  realize  her  intention,  Brenda  leaped  past 
the  shovellers,  sprang  over  the  embankment  they 
were  throwing  up,  and  by  the  aid  of  a  bench 
sprang  up  the  four-foot  wall  through  the  flame- 
wreathed  aperture  and  disappeared,  her  cloth- 
ing apparently  in  a  blaze.  The  war-whoops 
immediately  ceased. 

No  attempt  at  pursuit  or  rescue  was  made. 
The  Arnolds  and  their  friends  felt  that  it  would 
be  useless,  and  only  result  in  the  death  of  the 
pursuers.  The  work  of  closing  the  passage  was 
resumed  and  completed,  and  all  sat  down  in  the 
darkness  to  await  the  slow  passage  of  time  and 
the  possible  arrival  of  the  soldiers. 

None  of  the  party  felt  sure  that  Willie  had 
succeeded  in  leaving  the  valley,  believing,  as 
they  did,  that  his  chances  of  passing  the  Apache 


222  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

pickets  were  few  and  desperate.  They  had  more 
confidence  in  the  supposition  that  Brenda's  act 
would  cause  the  Indians  to  believe  all  but  the 
girl  had  perished,  and  lead  them  to  depart  at 
once  with  their  booty. 

After  listening  to  the  story  of  the  Arnolds, 
Lieutenant  Randolph  concluded  that  Brenda 
had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  cruelty  of  the  Apaches, 
and  that  a  search  would  reveal  her  body 
mutilated  and  disfigured  by  her  captors.  A 
rapid  and  excited  search  was  at  once  begun. 
Far  and  wide,  over  the  plain,  through  the  ra- 
vines, and  into  the  foot-hills  rode  the  soldiers, 
leaving  no  part  of  the  country  for  two  miles 
around  unsearched ;  but  not  a  trace  of  the  miss- 
ing girl  was  discovered. 

Once  more  the  detachment  gathered  near  the 
ruins  of  the  Arnold's  home,  and  began  prepara- 
tions for  returning  to  Whipple.  The  remains 
of  the  dead  mother  were  lifted  from  beneath  the 
charred  timbers,  and  deposited  in  a  grave  pre- 
pared near  by.  While  the  burial  was  taking 
place,  the  two  scouts.  Weaver  and  Cooler,  were 
absent,  looking  for  the  Apache  trail.  Day  was 
dawning,  and  as  it  was  probable  when  they  re- 
turned that  the  command  would  start,  the  officer 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  223 

ordered  the  horses  fed  from  the  loose  forage 
scattered  about,  and  the  men  to  prepare  their 
breakfast. 

The  scouts  returned  as  the  men  were  dispers- 
ing from  their  meal,  and  Cooler  placed  in  the 
lieutenant's  hand  a  dainty  lock  of  flaxen  hair 
wound  around  the  middle  with  another  lock. 

"I  found  it,"  said  the  scout,  ^^beside  the  ravine 
yonder,  a  little  more  than  two  miles  from  here. 
The  young  miss  is  alive  and  dropped  it  for  a 
sign.    The  redskins  all  left  in  that  direction." 

Whatever  Brenda's  three  cousins  may  have 
lacked  in  education  and  cultivation,  they  lacked 
nothing  in  affection.  They  gathered  about  the 
little  tress,  took  it  daintily  in  their  palms,  kissed 
it  again  and  again,  and  moistened  it  with  tears. 
Low  sobs  and  endearing  names  for  the  brave 
darling  who  had  been  willing  to  sacrifice  her 
life  to  preserve  theirs  fell  from  their  lips.  Poor, 
rude  frontier  maids,  they  had  shown  an  equal 
bravery  all  through  the  defence,  and  proved 
themselves  to  be  worthy  descendents  of  the  race 
that  lived  through  the  colonial  struggles  with  the 
Indians  of  the  East.  The  three  grief-stricken 
girls  gathered  about  Lieutenant  Randolph,  and, 


224  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

clinging  to  his  arms,  besought  him  to  go  to  the 
rescue  of  their  cousin. 

"Yes,  yes,  girls,"  he  replied,  "everything  shall 
be  done  that  possibly  can  be  done.  We  will  start 
at  once,  and  I  hope  to  bring  her  back  to  you. 
Mr.  Arnold,"  he  continued,  "I  will  leave  you  a 
luncheon  for  the  road,  and  you  must  try  to  make 
the  distance  to  Prescott  on  foot." 

"Yes,  sir,  we  can  cover  the  ground  easy ;  thank 
you." 

"I  would  leave  you  some  of  the  men  as  escort, 
but  in  such  an  expedition  I  shall  need  more  than 
I  have." 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Randolph.  If  I  had  a 
horse  I'd  go  with  you.  There'll  be  no  Apaches 
round  this  place  for  many  days,"  and  his  eyes 
ran  sadly  over  the  ruins  of  his  home,  resting 
finally  on  the  grave  of  his  wife. 

Yes,  Brenda  was  alive,  and  a  prisoner  of  the 
Apaches,  spared  by  them,  as  children  sometimes 
are  after  such  raids,  for  adoption.  It  was  plain- 
ly the  duty  of  soldiers  to  rescue  her  from  the 
cruel  fate  of  a  continued  life  with  her  captors. 

IV 

After  a  delay  sufficiently  long  to  allow  the 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  225 

scouts  and  their  broncos  to  breakfast,  the  party 
mounted  and  turned  to  the  west.  Lieutenant 
Randolph  asked  Weaver  to  ride  by  his  side,  and 
questioned  him  about  the  country  before  them. 

"I  suppose  you  are  familiar  with  this  part 
of  the  country,  Paul?" 

"Ought  t'  be ;  been  here  off  and  on  since  I  was 
twenty." 

"Have  the  Indians  a  camping-place  near 
here?" 

"Yes ;  they  spend  a  part  of  every  year  in  this 
section,  gatherin'  mescal.  From  the  direction 
they've  took,  I  b'lieve  they're  goin'  to  Santy 
Maree  Creek." 

"That  flows  into  Bill  Williams  Fork,  doesn't 
it?" 

"Yes;  and  't  has  a  northern  and  southern 
branch.  One  of  the  favorite  campin'-places  of 
the  tribe  is  on  the  southern  branch." 

"How  far  is  it  from  Cholla  Valley?" 

"Fifty  miles." 

"Easy  to  approach?" 

"Good  ridin'  all  the  way,  'cept  a  bit  of  bowl- 
der country  on  a  divide." 

"Is  the  camp  open  to  attack?" 

"Wide  open  after  you  get  into  the  valley. 


226  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

There's  a  water-fall,  or,  rather,  a  piece  of  rips 
there  that  '11  drown  the  noise  of  our  comin'." 

"Isn't  it  strange  that  Indians  should  camp  in 
such  a  place?" 

"They  are  Mescalero  Apaches,  and  the  mescal 
grows  thick  round  there.  Besides,  there's  no 
other  place  on  the  stream  combinin'  grazin'  and 
waterin',  and  they've  never  been  hunted  into  that 
region  yet." 

"Well,  Paul,  we'll  try  to  hunt  them  there  now 
if  we  have  good  luck." 

The  lieutenant  urged  the  men  on  as  fast  as 
possible,  taking  care  not  to  exhaust  the  horses 
and  unfit  them  for  a  long  pursuit.  The  soldiers 
were  animated  by  a  strong  desire  to  punish  the 
Indians  for  their  treatment  of  the  family  in  the 
valley,  and  were  excited  by  the  fear  that  the 
gentle  girl  in  their  hands  might  fall  a  victim  to 
some  barbaric  cruelty  before  they  could  be  over- 
taken, so  that  the  animals  were  constantly  urged 
close  to  the  powers  of  endurance.  There  was 
not  much  talking.  Every  pulse  was  throbbing 
with  a  desire  to  get  within  rifle-range  of  the 
savages. 

There  is  no  doubt  but  the  Indian  has  been 
grossly  abused,  defrauded,  and  cheated  since  the 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  227 

white  man  first  made  his  acquaintance.  The 
scenes  depicted  in  this  story  were  the  result  of 
centuries  of  error  and  wrong  on  the  part  of 
Spaniards  and,  after  them,  Americans.  Few 
army  men  are  inclined  to  dispute  this.  The 
cruelty  of  the  American  Indian  is  the  cruelty  of 
every  savage  people,  white  or  red,  since  time  be- 
gan. When  on  the  warpath,  to  the  savage  mind 
it  seems  proper  that  no  cruelty  should  be  spared 
his  victim.  Whatever  opinions,  however,  the 
soldier  may  entertain  of  the  national  method  of 
conducting  Indian  affairs,  it  becomes  his  duty  to 
secure  peace  by  war  when  the  resentful  savage 
begins  hostilities. 

War  with  the  Apaches,  the  result  of  gold- 
hunting  and  land  encroachments  upon  their 
reservations,  had  been  going  on  for  several  years 
when  the  attack  upon  the  Cholla  Valley  ranch 
occurred.  The  detachment  now  in  pursuit  of 
a  band  of  the  tribe  entertained  the  natural  re- 
sentment of  a  generous  foe  for  a  cruel  and  re- 
lentless one,  and  a  personal  acquaintance  and 
warm,  friendly  interest  in  the  family  that  had 
suffered  animated  the  men  with  a  strong  resolu- 
tion to  administer  severe  punishment  for  what 
had  been  done  in  the  valley. 


228  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

Near  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  as  the  sol- 
diers were  riding  up  a  canon,  on  each  side  of 
which  rose  rugged  sandstone  precipices,  they 
came  to  a  fork  in  the  trail  and  the  canon.  The 
track  parted,  and,  judging  from  the  footprints, 
most  of  the  captured  stock  had  passed  to  the 
right.  Weaver  said  the  right-hand  path  led  to 
the  northern  branch  of  the  Santa  Maria,  and 
the  left  to  the  southern  branch. 

The  detachment  halted  perplexed.  To  divide 
the  party  of  twenty-eight  in  order  to  follow  both 
trails  would  be  attended  by  much  danger.  To 
take  the  whole  number  over  a  wrong  trail  and 
not  rescue  Brenda  was  a  course  to  be  dreaded. 
Lieutenant  Randolph  called  the  scouts  to  him 
for  consultation. 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  asked,  "that  it  is  prob- 
able a  girl  who  was  thoughtful  enough  to  drop 
a  sign  to  show  she  was  alive  and  a  captive  would 
be  likely  to  give  us  a  hint  which  trail  she  was 
taken  over  from  this  point?" 

"That's  prob'ble,  leftenant,"  replied  Weaver. 

"If  you'll  hold  the  boys  here  a  bit,  George  and 
I  will  ride  up  the  two  trails  a  piece  and  look  for 
signs." 

"Go  quite  a  distance,  too.    She  might  not  get 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  229 

an  opportunity  to  drop  anything  for  some  time 
after  leaving  the  fork." 

"That's  true,"  said  Cooler;  "the  redskins 
would  be  watching  her  very  sharply.  Which 
way  will  you  go,  Paul?" 

"Let  the  leftenant  say,"  answered  the  old 
scout,  tightening  his  belt  and  readjusting  his 
equipments  for  a  longer  ride. 

"All  ready,  then,"  said  Randolph.  "You  take 
the  right.  Weaver,  and  George  the  left.  While 
you  are  gone  we'll  turn  out  the  stock." 

The  scouts  departed,  and  a  few  moments  later 
the  horses  of  the  command  were  cropping  the 
rich  grass  of  the  narrow  valley,  sentinels  were 
posted  to  watch  them  and  look  for  the  return  of 
the  guides,  and  the  rest  of  the  men  threw  them- 
selves upon  the  turf  to  wait. 

An  hour  passed  away,  when  Weaver  was  seen 
returning  from  the  northern  trail.  As  he  ap- 
proached he  held  something  above  his  head. 
Directing  the  horses  to  be  got  ready,  the  officer 
walked  forward  to  meet  him,  and  received  from 
his  hand  a  small  bow  of  blue  ribbon,  which  he 
at  once  recognized  to  be  the  property  of  Brenda. 

It  now  appeared  certain  the  girl  captive  had 
been  taken  over  the  road  to  the  right;  so,  with- 


230  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

out  waiting  for  the  return  of  Cooler,  the  men 
were  ordered  into  their  saddles,  and  the  detach- 
ment started  over  the  northern  trail.  It  had  not 
gone  far,  however,  when  a  man  in  the  rear  called 
to  the  lieutenant.  Looking  back  he  saw  the 
young  scout  galloping  rapidly  forward  and 
beckoning  them  back. 

A  halt  was  ordered,  and  Cooler  rode  up  to 
the  commander  and  placed  in  his  hand  a  lock  of 
flaxen  hair  bound  with  a  thread  of  the  same. 
Placed  by  the  other  they  were  twin  tresses,  ex- 
cept that  the  last  was  slightly  singed  by  fire. 

Tears  glistened  on  the  eyelids  of  some  of  the 
bronzed  veterans  at  the  sight  of  the  tiny  lock  of 
hair,  and  the  accompanying  reflection  that  the 
party  had  barely  escaped  taking  the  wrong  trail. 

"God  bless  the  darlint,"  said  grizzled  Ser- 
geant Rafferty,  "there's  not  a  redskin  can  bate 
her  with  ther  thricks.  We'll  bring  her  back  to 
the  post,  b'yes,  or  'U  go  hard  with  usl" 

The  sergeant's  remarks  were  subscribed  to  by 
many  hearty  exclamations  on  the  part  of  his 
fellow-soldiers.  It  was  evident  that  the  Apaches 
had  expected  to  be  pursued  and  had  dropped 
the  ribbon  to  mislead;  and  that  Brenda,  noticing 
the  fork  in  the  road  and  the  division  in  the  In- 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  231 

dian  force,  and  foreseeing  the  perplexity  her 
friends  would  be  in,  had  dropped  her  sign  to 
set  them  right  as  soon  as  opportunity  offered. 

The  lieutenant  asked  the  guides  if  it  was  not 
probable  the  Apaches  had  a  watch  set  on  the 
overlooking  heights  to  see  which  road  his  party 
took  at  this  point. 

^^Sart'inly,  leftenant,  sart'inly,"  answered 
Weaver ;  "they're  watching  us  sharp  just  now." 

"Then  we  had  better  continue  on  the  northern 
trail  awhile  and  mislead  them,  you  think?" 

"My  very  thought.  That's  the  best  thing  to 
do.  We  needn't  reach  their  camp  until  after 
midnight,  and  we  might  's  well  spend  the  time 
misleadin'  'em." 

"Yes;  and  it'll  be  better  to  reach  them  near 
morning,  too,"  added  Cooler. 

"Then  we  will  go  on  as  we  began  for  some 
time  longer,"  replied  the  lieutenant;  and  the 
soldiers  again  moved  at  a  brisk  canter  over  the 
northern  trail.  An  hour  afterwards  a  halt  was 
made  in  a  grassy  nook,  the  horses  turned  out  to 
graze  until  dusk,  when  the  route  was  retraced 
to  the  fork,  and  the  march  resumed  over  the 
southern  branch. 

Night  overtook  the  pursuers  on  a  high  ridge 


232  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

covered  with  loose,  rounded  bowlders,  over 
which  it  was  necessary  to  slowly  lead  the  horses 
with  some  clatter,  and  many  bruises  to  man  and 
beast.  The  rough  road  lasted  until  a  consider- 
able descent  was  made  on  the  western  side,  end- 
ing on  the  edge  of  a  grassy  valley. 

At  this  point.  Weaver  advised  that  the  horses 
should  be  left,  and  the  command  proceed  on 
foot;  for  if  the  Indians  were  in  camp  at  the 
rapids  it  would  be  impossible  to  approach 
mounted  without  alarming  them;  while  if  on 
foot,  the  noise  of  the  rushing  water  would  cover 
the  sound  of  all  movements. 

Six  men  were  sent  back  to  a  narrow  defile  to 
prevent  the  attacking  party  from  being  surprised 
by  the  Indians  who  had  taken  the  northern  trail, 
should  they  attempt  to  rejoin  their  friends  at  the 
rapids.  Randolph  determined,  on  the  recom- 
mendation of  the  scouts,  to  defer  making  an  at- 
tack until  after  three  o'clock,  for  at  that  time 
the  enemy  would  be  feeling  quite  secure  from 
pursuit  and  be  in  their  deepest  sleep. 

The  horses  were  picketed,  guards  posted,  and 
lunch  distributed,  and  all  not  on  duty  lay  down 
to  wait.  Time  dragged  slowly.  About  one 
o'clock  a  noise  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  creek 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  233 

attracted  attention,  and  Cooler  crept  away  in  the 
darkness  to  ascertain  its  cause.  In  half  an  hour 
he  returned  with  the  information  that  the  In- 
dians who  had  taken  the  northern  trail  had  re- 
joined their  friends  and  turned  their  animals  in- 
to the  general  herd.  Upon  learning  this,  the 
lieutenant  sent  a  messenger  to  call  in  the  six  men 
sent  to  guard  the  narrow  defile,  and  shortly  after- 
wards they  joined  their  waiting  comrades. 

An  hour  later  Weaver  announced  the  time  to 
start.  Leaving  but  one  man  to  look  after  the 
horses  the  rest  slipped  down  the  slope  into  the 
river-bottom,  taking  care  not  to  rattle  arms  and 
accoutrements,  and  began  a  slow  advance  along 
the  narrow  pathway,  the  borders  of  which  were 
lined  with  the  spiked  vegetation  of  the  country. 

Going  on  for  some  time,  Randolph  judged 
from  the  sound  of  flowing  water  that  they  were 
nearing  the  camp.  He  halted  and  sent  the  two 
scouts  to  reconnoitre.  They  did  so,  and  returned 
with  the  information  that  the  camp  was  close  at 
hand,  and  contained  thirteen  mat  and  skin 
covered  tents  or  huts,  and  that  the  stolen  stock 
and  Indian  ponies  were  grazing  on  a  flat  just 
beyond.    No  guards  were  visible. 

The  flat  about  the  camp  was  covered  with 


234  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

Spanish-bayonet,  soapweed,  and  cacti,  with  here 
and  there  a  variety  of  palmetto  which  attains  a 
height  of  about  twenty-five  feet,  the  trunks 
shaggy  with  a  fringe  of  dead  spines  left  by  each 
year's  growth.  Cooler  suggested  that  at  a  given 
signal  the  trunks  of  two  of  these  trees  should  be 
set  on  fire  to  light  up  the  camp,  and  enable  the 
soldiers  to  pick  off  the  Apaches  as  they  left  their 
shelter  when  the  attack  began.  He  also  pro- 
posed a  yell,  saying:  "If  you  outyell  'em,  lieu- 
tenant, you  can  outfight  'em." 

Although  the  lieutenant  doubted  whether 
twenty-three  white  throats  could  make  as  much 
noise  as  half  a  dozen  red  ones,  he  consented  to 
the  proposition.  He  sent  four  men  to  the  flat 
upon  which  the  ponies  and  cattle  were  grazing, 
with  orders  to  place  themselves  between  the 
animals  and  the  creek,  and  when  the  firing  began 
drive  them  back  along  the  trail  into  the  hills. 

When  these  instructions  had  been  given.  Doc- 
tor Colton  asked  Randolph  if  the  firing  would 
be  directed  into  the  tents. 

"That  is  what  I  was  thinking  of,"  replied  the 
lieutenant. 

"Of  course  Brenda  is  in  one  of  them,"  said 
the  doctor. 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  235 

"Yes;  and  if  we  shoot  into  them  indiscrimi- 
nately we  are  as  likely  to  hit  her  as  any  one." 

"Can  you  think  of  any  other  way  of  locating 
her?" 

"No;  I  am  at  a  dead  loss.  We  will  try 
Cooler's  plan  of  yelling,  and  perhaps  that  will 
bring  them  out." 

He  searched  for  Sergeant  Rafferty,  and 
directed  him  to  forbid  any  one  to  fire  until  or- 
ders were  given  to  do  so. 


Orders  were  passed  and  dispositions  so  made 
that  one-half  the  force  was  placed  on  each  flank 
of  the  camp.  All  movements  were  made  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  the  place  to  be  at- 
tacked, and  the  utmost  care  taken  to  make  no 
noise  that  would  alarm  the  sleeping  foe.  Once 
on  the  flanks,  the  men  were  to  creep  up  slowly 
and  stealthily  to  effective  rifle  range.  When  the 
trunks  of  the  palmettos  were  lighted  all  were  to 
yell  as  diabolically  as  possible,  and  fire  at  every 
Indian  that  showed  himself. 

The  front  of  the  camp  was  towards  the  creek, 
which  flowed  over  bowlders  and  pebbles  with 
considerable   rush   and   roar.    The   ofl[icer  ex- 


236  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

pected  the  Indians  in  their  flight  would  make  a 
dash  for  the  stream,  and  attempt  to  pass  through 
the  shoal  rapids  to  the  wooded  bluffs  beyond. 

The  soldiers  were  told  to  screen  themselves 
behind  yuccas  or  the  Spanish-bayonet,  emole, 
and  cacti.  The  lieutenant,  accompanied  by  Paul 
Weaver,  selected  a  clump  on  the  northern  side, 
from  which  he  could  observe  the  front  of  the 
tents.  Sergeant  Rafferty  with  George  Cooler 
was  on  the  opposite  flank,  and  the  lighting  of 
a  tree  on  the  officer's  side  was  to  be  the  signal 
for  one  to  be  lighted  on  the  other,  and  for  the 
yelling  to  begin. 

All  was  done  as  planned.  The  flash  of  one 
match  was  followed  promptly  by  the  flash  of 
another.  Two  flames  burst  forth  and  climbed 
rapidly  the  shaggy  palmettos,  making  the  whole 
locality  as  bright  as  day.  At  the  same  instant 
the  imitation  war-whoop  burst  from  vigorous 
lungs  and  throats. 

Every  one  held  his  rifle  to  shoot  the  escaping 
Apaches;  but  not  a  redskin  showed  his  head. 
The  soldiers  yelled  and  yelled,  practising  every 
variation  ingenuity  could  invent  in  the  vain  at- 
tempts to  make  their  tame  white-man  utterances 
resemble  the  blood-curdling,  hair-raising,  heart- 
jumping  shrieks  of  their  Indian  foes,  now  so 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  237 

Strangely  silent.  Not  a  savage  responded  vocally 
or  otherwise. 

But  for  the  presence  of  the  captive  girl  the 
attack  would  have  begun  by  riddling  the  thinly 
covered  shelters  with  bullets  at  low  range.  Th^ 
Indians  evidently  understood  that  they  were 
secure  from  injury  as  long  as  they  kept  out  of 
sight. 

The  two  burning  trees  had  gone  out,  and  two 
others  had  been  lighted.  It  began  to  appear 
evident  that  if  something  was  not  done  to  bring 
out  the  foe,  the  supply  of  towering  torches 
would  be  exhausted  and  nothing  accomplished. 
In  darkness  the  advantage  might  be  on  the  side 
of  the  red  men. 

The  surgeon,  who  reclined  near  the  lieuten- 
ant, asked:  ^^Do  you  think  any  of  those  fellows 
understand  English?" 

'^Guess  not;  their  neighbors  are  the  Mexicans, 
and  some  of  them  know  Spanish.  You  know 
we  always  employ  a  Mexican  as  interpreter 
when  we  talk  with  them." 

*^Then  why  not  speak  to  Brenda  in  English, 
and  ask  her  to  try  to  show  us  where  she  is.  The 
Apaches  will  not  understand — ^will  think  you 
are  talking  to  your  men." 

^^Thank  you,  doctor,  that's  an  excellent  idea." 


238  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

A  soldier  was  sent  along  both  flanks  with  or- 
ders for  all  yelling  to  cease,  and  for  perfect  quiet 
to  be  maintained.  Then,  acting  upon  the  sur- 
geon's suggestion,  Randolph  called  in  a  clear, 
loud  voice : 

^^Brenda,  we  are  here,  your  friends  from  the 
fort.  Your  relatives  are  safe.  Try  and  make  a 
signal  by  which  we  can  tell  where  you  are.  Take 
plenty  of  time,  and  do  nothing  to  endanger  your 
life!" 

A  long  silence  succeeded,  during  which  two 
more  palms  were  consumed,  and  the  officer  was 
beginning  to  fear  that  he  would  be  obliged  to 
offer  terms  to  the  Indians,  leaving  them  unhurt, 
if  they  would  yield  up  the  captive  and  the  stolen 
stock. 

But  before  the  lieutenant  had  fully  considered 
this  alternative  Cooler  approached  from  the  rear 
and  said :  ^'Lieutenant,  I've  been  creepin'  along 
behind  the  wiggies,  and  I  saw  somethin'  looks 
like  a  white  hand  stickin'  out  from  under  the 
edge  of  the  tenth  from  the  left." 

''Show  it  to  me,"  said  the  officer.  "I'll  ac- 
company you." 

Making  a  detour  to  the  rear  the  two  crept  up 
to  the  back  of  the  tent  indicated,  pausing  at  a 
distance  of  twenty  feet  from  it.    It  was  too  dark 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  239 

to  make  out  anything  definite.  A  narrow  white 
object  was  visible  beneath  the  lower  edge;  that 
was  all. 

Cooler  was  sent  back  a  short  distance  to  light 
a  palm,  and  as  the  flames  crept  swiftly  up  the 
trunk  the  officer  saw  by  the  flaring  light  a  small, 
white  hand,  holding  in  its  fingers  the  loose  tresses 
of  Brenda's  hair.  The  question  was  settled.  The 
captive  girl  was  in  the  fourth  tent  from  the  right 
of  the  line. 

Waiting  until  the  fire  went  out,  the  two 
worked  their  way  well  to  the  rear. 

^^Go  back,  George,"  said  Randolph,  "to  your 
flank,  and  tell  Sergeant  RaflFerty  to  move  his 
men  to  a  point  from  which  he  can  cover  the  rear 
of  the  camp,  and  open  fire  on  all  the  tents  except 
the  tenth  from  the  left  and  the  fourth  from  the 
right.  The  rest  of  us  will  attend  to  those  who 
run." 

"All  right,  sir,  we'll  soon  make  it  lively  for 
the  rascals." 

"Light  up  some  more  trees  when  you  are  all 
ready." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  lieutenant  crept  slowly  back  to  his  own 
flank  and  ordered  a  disposition  of  his  party  so 
as  to  command  the  space  in  front  of  the  line  of 


240  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

tents.  In  another  instant  the  flames  were  ascend- 
ing the  two  tree  trunks,  and  the  rapid  crackling 
of  rifles  broke  the  early  morning  stillness.  With 
the  first  scream  of  a  bullet  through  the  flimsy 
shelters  the  Indians  leaped  out  and  dashed  for 
the  river.  Few  fell.  Rapid  zigzags  and  the 
swinging  of  blankets  and  arms  as  they  ran  con- 
fused the  aim  of  the  soldiers.  In  less  than  five 
minutes  the  last  Apache  was  out  of  sight,  and 
the  firing  had  ceased. 

Concealment  was  no  longer  a  necessary  pre^ 
caution,  and  the  soldiers  thronged  the  space 
before  the  tents.  Walking  to  the  hut  from  which 
he  had  seen  the  hand  and  tresses  thrust  out,  the 
lieutenant  called:  ^^Brendal"  There  was  no 
response  or  sound.  Looking  into  the  entrance, 
he  saw  in  the  dim  light  of  the  awakening  day 
the  figure  of  a  girl  lying  on  her  back,  her  feet 
extended  towards  him,  and  her  head  touching 
the  rear  wall.  The  right  arm  lay  along  her  side, 
and  the  left  was  thrown  above  her  head,  the 
fingers  still  holding  her  hair. 

A  terrible  fear  seized  the  young  officer.  He 
again  called  the  girl  by  name,  and  receiving  no 
answer  went  in,  and,  with  nervous  fingers, 
lighted  a  match  and  stooped  beside  her.  He 
saw  a  rill  of  blood  threading  its  way  across  the 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  241 

earthen  floor  from  her  left  side.  He  shouted  for 
Doctor  Colton,  and  the  surgeon  hurried  in. 
From  his  instrument-case  he  took  a  small  lan- 
tern, and,  lighting  it,  fell  upon  his  knees  beside 
the  prostrate  girl. 

During  the  following  few  moments,  while  the 
skilled  fingers  of  the  firm-nerved  surgeon  were 
cutting  away  clothing  to  expose  the  nature  of  the 
wound,  the  lieutenant's  thoughts  found  time  to 
wander  away  to  the  girl's  brother  Willie,  who 
had  been  left  at  the  fort  in  spite  of  repeated  re- 
quests to  be  allowed  to  accompany  the  detach- 
ment. He  thought  what  a  sad  message  it  would 
be  his  province  to  bear  to  the  lad  if  this  dear 
sister  should  die  by  savage  hands. 

The  lieutenant  entertained  little  hope  that  the 
pretty  girl  could  live.  He  looked  upon  her  as 
already  claimed  by  death.  She  who  had  made 
a  long  and  weary  march  pleasant  by  her  vivacity 
and  intelligence  was  to  die  in  this  wretched  hole. 

But  the  skilful  fingers  of  the  young  surgeon 
were  continuing  the  search  for  some  evidence 
that  the  savage  stab  was  not  fatal,  and  his  mind 
was  busy  with  means  for  preserving  life  should 
there  be  a  chance.  The  officer  watched,  and 
assisted  now  and  then  when  asked ;  waited  with 


242  BOY^S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

Strained  patience  for  a  word  upon  which  to  base 
a  hope. 

At  last  the  doctor  dropped  the  hand  whose 
pulse  he  had  been  long  searching,  and  said: 
^^She  is  alive,  and  that  is  about  all.  You  see  her 
hands,  arms,  and  neck  are  badly  scorched  by  the 
dash  she  made  through. the  fire  at  the  ranch. 
Then  this  wicked  stab  has  paralyzed  her.  She 
has  bled  considerably,  too.  But  she  lives.  Press 
your  finger  on  this  artery." 

"Can  she  be  made  to  live,  doctor?" 

"The  knife  did  not  touch  a  vital  part;  but  it 
may  have  done  irreparable  injury.  I  can  tell 
more  presently." 

Nothing  more  was  said,  except  in  the  way  of 
direction,  for  a  long  time,  the  surgeon  working 
slowly  and  skilfully  at  the  wound.  At  last,  re- 
arranging her  clothing  and  replacing  his  instru- 
ments in  their  case,  he  said:  "If  I  had  the  girl 
in  the  post  hospital,  or  in  a  civilized  dwelling 
with  a  good  nurse,  I  think  she  might  recover." 

"Can't  we  give  her  the  proper  attendance 
here,  doctor?"  asked  Randolph. 

"I  fear  not.  She  ought  to  have  a  woman's 
gentle  care,  for  one  thing,  and  some  remedies 
and  appliances  I  haven't  here  for  such  a  deli- 
cate case.    It  is  the  long  distance  between  here 


ON  AN  ARIZONA  TRAIL  243 

and  the  fort  that  makes  the  outlook  hopeless. 
She  cannot  survive  the  journey." 

"Then  we  will  remain  here,"  said  the  lieu- 
tenant, with  decision.  "Write  out  a  list  of  what 
you  want,  and  I  will  send  Cooler  to  the  fort  for 
tents  and  supplies,  a  camp  woman,  Willie,  and 
the  elder  Arnold  girl." 

"Randolph,  you  are  inspired!"  exclaimed  the 
doctor.  "We  will  save  this  girl.  I'll  have  my 
order  ready  in  a  few  moments,  and  then  we  will 
make  Brenda  comfortable.  You  and  I  can  man- 
age until  a  better  nurse  arrives." 

A  letter  was  written  to  Captain  Bayard,  the 
surgeon's  memoranda  enclosed,  and  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  afterwards  Cooler  was  flying  over 
the  sixty  miles  to  Fort  Whipple.  Three  days 
later  a  pack-train  arrived  with  the  laundress, 
Willie  and  Mary  Arnold,  and  with  the  stores 
and  supplies  necessary  for  setting  up  a  sick 
camp.  The  wounded  girl  mended  rapidly  from 
the  start. 

On  the  fourth  day  succeeding  the  rescue  Ran- 
dolph returned  to  the  fort  with  all  but  Sergeant 
RaflPerty  and  ten  privates  of  the  detachment,  who 
were  left  as  a  guard  to  the  surgeon,  his  patient, 
I  and  her  attendants.  The  recaptured  stock  and 
captured  Indian  ponies  were  brought  in,  and 


244  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  THE  ARMY 

Mr.  Arnold  was  made  even  so  far  as  oxen  and 
horses  went.  He  made  no  attempt,  however,  to 
return  to  Cholla  Valley,  but  took  an  early  oppor- 
tunity to  sell  out  his  claim  and  everything  be- 
longing to  it. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  Brenda  had  so  far 
recovered  as  to  warrant  Doctor  Colton  in  per- 
mitting her  removal  to  Whipple.  An  ambu- 
lance was  driven  to  the  bowlder-covered  ridge 
mentioned  in  a  previous  chapter,  and  she  was 
borne  upon  a  stretcher  by  the  soldiers  to  where 
it  stood  in  waiting.  All  went  well,  and  on  the 
second  day  after  leaving  the  Santa  Maria  the 
invalid  was  comfortably  settled  at  the  fort. 

In  time  Brenda  fully  recovered,  and  Gypsy 
and  the  handsomest  pony  captured  from  the 
Apaches  were  in  almost  daily  requisition  to  take 
the  young  people  on  long  rides  about  the  fort 
and  town.  Letters  were  sent  by  Captain  Bayard 
to  their  maternal  relatives,  and  just  before 
Christmas  an  uncle  arrived  at  the  fort  and  took 
charge  of  his  nephew  and  niece,  taking  them  and 
their  ponies  to  his  home  in  the  East. 

THE  END. 


h 


YB8  i  I 


Jv.^'O 


iv!60825 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


